LILY stood watching him. In her long flowing white dress that billowed as the wind whipped the skirts of the garment, she looked every bit the saint and martyr she had become since her death years ago, yet her face was so sullen and fearful that it sent a chill down Severus's spine.

Behind her, what was left of her home in Godric's Hollow lay in smoldering ruin, the aftermath of Voldemort's assault on the Potter family the night she was killed alongside her wretched husband.

Lily's deep green pleading eyes pierced his soul, tugging at his heartstrings. Severus mouthed Lily's name, but he could not hear her voice. Severus itched to reach out for her, to feel her hand. She stretched out a trembling hand to touch the witch's pale, tear-stained face.

He tried with all of his strength to reach her, but the distance only grew between the two of them with each attempt. Suddenly, Lily began to fade from Severus's view.

It was like watching Lily leave him and being powerless to stop it from happening all over again.

As her image flickered and distorted and faded away, her phantasm was replaced by the lovely vision of his Healer, lovely shy Dahlia, and to look into her eyes was like staring into an empty abyss, red at the rims, screaming exhaustion. He reached out a shaking hand to tousle his fingers in her hair.

The fiery embers in her eyes had died down. He caught her trembling sighs as his shaking fingers traced the space near her left eyebrow and cupped her cheek.

Severus frowned, the edges of his mouth pinching downward in a frown, as he noticed the luster of the young witch's dark red hair had faded, and the coarseness took over. A tear slipped to his fingers and turned to ice. He looked back up to her blank eyes only to see them welling.

Dahlia's almost cracked lips parted to a whisper that he had to lean forward to hear.

"Severus. Do you hate me?"

He froze, not having anticipated the question. He was sure the phantasm image of Dahlia in his dream saw the grimace that twisted his features into something almost unrecognizable.

The answer was ripped from his lips before he could stop himself from saying it.

"Yes," Severus heard himself whisper.

She closed her eyes and sighed with a strange satisfaction from his honest answer, and in his dream, she heard him, his silent thoughts he willed her to hear, that he lacked the strength to speak.

I hate you, Hawthorne, I do. I hate your beauty. I hate how it makes me worry that I would never see it again, and I want to break it.

Shadows began to descend on the two of them now and the entirety of Godric's Hollow, clouding her pale face and shielding her from him. She looked like a silhouette now.

I hate your kindness, how everyone else wants it for themselves, I want to break it. I hate your innocence and how it causes me to fret that you might lose it, that you would be lost as Lily was. But… But Merlin… what have I done?

His eyes grew wide with wonder as the flames that engulfed the Potters' home reached Dahlia, surrounding the witch, the fire had taken on a life of its own.

Then, in the silence, as Dahlia Hawthorne began to burn, gentle snow began to fall. It took him a moment to realize that it was not weeny snowflakes that fell on his shoulders, but ashes. Somewhere in the distance, just beyond the remnants of what remained of Potter's home, stood Antonin Dolohov, his expression listless and flat.

Severus bolted upright from his fitful sleep. His lungs, starved for breath, gasped in the oxygen as though it were disappearing from the room, but it burned them with its purity.

His chest heaving and hot, wretched tears threatened to slip from the edges of his eyes, he swallowed down hard and forced them back. He blinked with disbelief, unable to recall the last time his dreams had been so…vivid. His first thought was to blame it on the Sleeping Draughts that were a part of his nightly regiment now.

Though now, he was not so sure. It took him a moment as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom as he rose from his bed and dressed resignedly in black dress robes to realize that what he had just witnessed was nothing more than a dream.

The shock wore off and his breathing slowed. The only light was that which barely streamed in through the curtains.

Severus was secretly grateful for that. It made his embarrassment somehow that much more bearable. Yet, in some illogical part of his brain, he felt as though the walls of his own home had eyes, now that his prickly little Healer had taken up residence here alongside him, and that with just one look, that she'd know his private thoughts.

It was more than he could stomach, he thought, as he shook his head to himself, trying to send the vivid images of his dream away.

"Stop," he growled, hissing his words through gritted teeth, trying to tell himself that it was only natural that he would envision Godric's Hollow.

Lily's death and his role in the witch's murder had tormented him for years on end and he did not expect that would change.

But as for the appearance of the other young woman in his dream, Severus fought to justify Dahlia's appearance in his subconscious as simply his damned mind playing tricks on him.

She had been present in his thoughts last night, and the thought of how easily he had succumbed and had given in to her request that he accompany her to her bastard of a father's funeral had left him very nearly sleepless, tossing and turning, staring numbly up at the ceiling until an uneasy sleep had claimed him.

Hawthorne would be working with him for the better part of a mandated year, likely longer, he realized, with widened eyes, if the witch were to accept Minerva's proposal that she take over for Madame Pomfrey.

He had probably been wondering about that notion, what working with her in a professional environment would be like, as he drifted off, and thoughts of her had remained conjured in his head.

Lost in his thoughts again, Severus turned his gaze towards the windows, staring numbly at the drawn curtains angrily. He had calmed the worst of his shock and his racing heart had relaxed, at least somewhat.

Severus thought that he had created a story plausible enough for his mind to accept its unwanted attraction to the creature he lived with. Now comfortable with his unconscious storytelling, his mind slipped again unbidden to the events that had played in his subconscious a short time before.

He could see clearly in his mind the ruins of the Potters' home, he could feel once more the smooth coolness of her skin against his as his palm cupped her cheek, much like he'd done last night.

He had no idea why Dolohov's presence in his dream nagged at his conscience, like a Wrackspurt that he could not swat, but it vexed him. He had not spoken to Dolohov in weeks. Severus shook his head and scowled in frustration, turning wrathfully away from the window, and finished dressing in silence.

He did not understand this witch, then again, he was loathed to admit he often did not understand women, if he was being honest with himself, not that this had bothered him in the past, as he had more or less resigned himself to the fact that he'd likely never get over Lily.

In such circumstances, he resorted to spending as little time around them as possible. But with this strange creature… Severus's frown deepened as he turned himself towards his bedroom door.

His mind was taking him down a truly dangerous path, one he'd rather avoid.

Dahlia, in truth, was becoming a bit of a problem, a thorn in his side. As much as the witch annoyed him, she was not aware of it, or if she was, she was excellent at hiding it.

However, he knew firsthand that she was not a good liar.

No, Hawthorne was gifted with a pure heart. Something that was rare in this world in this day and age. Severus blinked owlishly at his reflection in the mirror, surprised at his observations of the prickly little witch.

Severus shook his head, sensing that his thoughts were now verging on the erratic and quite frankly, ridiculous. He had yielded to her and negotiated with her.

Staring incredulously at his reflection, it was all Snape could do not to let out a growl of frustration as he lifted a shaking hand nervously to his brow.

Visions of how Hawthorne had looked at him came to mind last night, her pleading warm eyes almost glistening.

The very same eyes he'd looked into in such wonder when he'd first regained consciousness for that single breath in the boathouse when she had told him everything would be alright.

And he had believed her.

Damn Dahlia. Damn the witch and her seductive eyes. She now owed him a favor, and he could not begin to fathom how he had let her get away with coercing him like this.

Her request that he accompany her was as strange as her desire to attend Hans Hawthorne's wake this morning. The last thing he wanted to do while recovering was attending that bastard's funeral.

Severus knew that he was a curious man by nature, and liked to learn, and though it pleased him nothing more than to learn a bastard wretch like Hans Hawthorne was dead at the hands of one of the Order's own, everything he had wanted to see was within the boundaries of his own home.

He did not need to see the man's tombstone and inscription of his disgusting name engraved within the mausoleum to take comfort and solace in the fact that the man was dead.

But fate had a way of playing with Severus, throwing swift and sudden surprises at him when he wanted them the least.

As much as Dahlia's presence in his life was intriguing him, loathed as he was to admit it, he'd not wanted to be torn away from his home, from the books and the relative quiet of the archaic place that was his home—not even for her.

But then she had looked at him with those damned almond-shaped eyes, pleadingly, and so full of hope, that he'd yielded and assented to the witch's request. Severus thought he could have done without playing the part of a protector. He'd spent enough time protecting others to last a lifetime.

But for some reason, the notion of becoming his Healer's protector, for that, he thought he would be willing to do anything. She'd saved his life, after all, and he did not want to seem ungrateful.

Blinking in an almost dazed fashion as he stared into his reflection, his expression looked exhausted. Hardly a surprise, after the night he'd had.

Severus closed his eyes before breathing out deeply. He heard nothing and saw nothing. Not but the cold truth.

That he was becoming attracted to the wretched prickly little creature assigned to fret after his health.

He could not deny it anymore, not after how she'd looked at him last night with such a hopeful expression. He knew he should have left her to rot back in St. Mungo's, had demanded that someone else take this job, but a part of him couldn't help it.

Severus was sure he'd never felt so out of control of his own life before. Although the man did not admit it consciously to himself, he was growing increasingly terrified of the strange effect this witch had on him.

It was the thought of wanting more time to linger around this woman and learn her secrets that she was hiding which was drawing him away from his home, he realized. He scowled and turned wrathfully away from his reflection and padded into the bathroom just opposite his room. He felt foolish and powerless against his thoughts as he ran the faucet and splashed the cold liquid on his face.

The relief was unimaginable for a moment. Severus let out a haggard groan while feeling the burning on his cheeks subside. The droplets of water played along the stubble growing along his jawline and he remembered not having shaved in a few days prior. When the rat had still been living with him under the Dark Lord's orders, he used to make Wormtail do it as a form of utmost humiliation. Wormtail.

Severus blearily lifted his gaze and studied his reflection, thoughts of Lily Potter's other betrayer flitting through his mind and clouding his thoughts. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of anger in his chest, his knuckles were white as they clutched the edges of the basin to steady himself.

He hoped the rat was dead. He'd heard no word of Peter and perhaps that was what was for the best.

Severus began to shiver and dug his teeth along the wall of his mouth as dark visions of what he would do to the rat came to his mind if the rat had somehow managed to scurry away from Death's clutches. Wormtail, if he was still alive, had better hope that one of Lord Voldemort's loyal followers got to him before he did, he seethed as blood flashed in his eyes, and tried to shove thoughts of the rat out of his mind. This was not going to happen. He could not allow it.

He would fill his mind with the task at hand, and for the day at least, that meant sticking close to his prickly little Healer and protecting her from harm.

Nothing and no one would interfere. Once the man was fully dressed and had collected his thoughts, Severus buried his wand and strode angrily from the hallway, shoving his emotions once more to the pit of his stomach, and stalked proudly down the hallway and into the kitchens.

The rumpled sheets of the man's bed back in his bedroom were left as the only witnesses to his newfound weakness.

Severus did not expect to find Dahlia already there, her back to him as she leaned against the countertop's surface, forsaking a seat at his table. She turned around, sensing she was no longer alone and faced him. The room was swathed in shadows, but Dahlia's eyes burned, brighter than any midnight torches could, and Severus thought he could draw the uncertainty she nursed for him.

But there was something else there too, something that resembled…curiosity? Maybe even...affection.

He frowned, not sure what to make of the witch's expression and it vexed him that he could not dip into her thoughts. She was blocking him out, keeping him from her true thoughts. She looked up as he strode into the room, taking him in with a narrow gaze. Dahlia halted. She had not expected Snape to make much of an effort to dress in something respectable for a man whom he despised.

Suspicion faded from her face as she took in the sight of his crisp dress robes, her interest piqued at the man's effort in an attempt to appease.

"You took your time, Severus," Dahlia remarked in somewhat a haughty tone that immediately made him scowl and let out a wordless grunt of annoyance. She shoveled another bite of what looked like an egg on a plate in her mouth and set the plate on his countertop as she wiped her hands on the skirts of her long black lace gown. "I've been waiting almost an hour. It's almost past seven," Dahlia accused. Severus frowned. She smiled, unfazed by his scowling. "Sleep well, Snape?" she asked, shoving another bite of egg into her mouth, following her bite of food with a swig of piping hot black coffee.

Severus, who had been groping for the chair with shaking bandaged hands, and had been about to pull it out, gave a visible start at the witch's question and almost missed the chair entirely. His head whiplashed sharply upwards to regard her, still unmoved by the counter and glowered at Dahlia.

What had she meant by that? Did she…know of his dream?

No. Surely not. She had not proven herself to him yet to be a Legilimens, there was no possible way that she could have dipped into his mind and saw for herself.

His face flushed high with color at the memory, not willing to divulge the details to her or anyone else, for that matter.

Severus was quick to recover and gave the redheaded Healer a nervous acknowledgment without turning to look at her.

"Yes. Thank you," he said, a little too quickly than he'd have liked, for out of the corner of his gaze, he thought he saw the witch have the impudence to raise a brow at him.

He pretended to pick at his bandages and check for any creases in his dress robes to keep busy and avoid conversation.

He had already decided that he would be gracious enough towards Hawthorne, for all that she had done for him, but he would remain appropriately aloof. Severus was confident that would send the correct message, that he was not interested, though he was beginning to suspect that that was not to be the case with Dahlia.

Honestly, he knew no other way. He flushed and tried not to notice how Dahlia's gaze bore a hole through him.

"Your pardon then, Dahlia," Severus managed to gasp out, his voice cracking.

Mornings, even before the Dark Lord's damned bloody snake had attacked him, had never been kind to him; the night and cover of shadows were his friends, the dawn of a new day his natural enemy, and even before the near attempt on his life and his throat had been slit, his voice was always hoarse in the mornings.

"You might have knocked and woken me if you were so anxious to depart early, Dahlia," he dryly remarked, reaching for the glass of water that Dahlia had sensed he would need, and shot her a rather reproachful look. "Perhaps you could have tried that, witch, had you considered it?" he asked.

"I had considered it," Dahlia said, stiffly as she eyed him guardedly, her hands wound around her mug of coffee, her expression placid. "But your rest, from what I could hear, was disturbed. Any sleep that you got last night was hard-won. I did not want to disturb you, sir."

Severus was startled at the revelation that at some time this morning, she had opened the door to his room to observe him.

Strangely enough, the thought of this witch looming over him, hesitating and uncertain, her hands shaking by his face, was almost unbearably precious to him. He felt his lips tug up in a coy smirk.

"How…improper of you," he drolled, lingering over the word and putting as much emphasis on it as he was able to. "Slipping into a man's room in the witching hours of the morning, Dahlia?"

"I didn't lay a hand against you, Severus," Dahlia snapped, setting down her coffee cup with more force than was necessary, as some of the liquid sloshed out of her cup and onto the counter.

Though before the droplets of her drink could splash onto the surface, she waved her wand and her cup vanished from view.

She huffed and folded her arms across her chest, and it was then as a stream of light flickered in through the open window, a faint hazy ray of sunshine that tried to peek out through the dull rainclouds outside that promised another storm, that he caught sight of her dress.

The light from the window hit Dahlia's tired, pale face, still groggy from being up at an hour she was unaccustomed to and engulfed it in a soft, golden glow.

When her red hair came into contact with this hazy light, it shone with a new sort of radiance and captured the underlying golden hues within her dark burgundy hair. It was as if gold hues had been woven into the thick locks of dark red hair.

The sight of the witch leaning against his counter stole Severus's breath away as he felt them hitch in his throat, his heartbeats thrummed erratically against his chest, his cheeks feeling warm all of a sudden as his eyes raked up and down her form, eye-catching to her figure in her gown of black lace.

She looked…entrancing. Yes, there was no other word for it, and for today, just for a few hours, she would stand alongside him and at least pretend to enjoy his company. His blood curdled at the thought of how someone like him could compare to a witch like her.

How could this witch be so willing to spend so much of her time, her own life, here in the desolate confines of his home, a place that did not feel like home to him? Hogwarts was perhaps the one place in the world he felt at peace.

He stiffened and forced his attention back towards his Healer, allowing himself a moment to observe her appearance. She had done something slightly different to her hair this morning, as it was gathered in a loose bun, a few stray wisps, and strands escaping to frame her face.

He often wondered why witches would bother wasting time on their hair, but her hair was beautiful, but then everything of Dahlia Hawthorne was.

Dahlia breathed in and wet her lips with an almost drying tongue, unknowing how it made Severus feel the spiraling numbness and warmth in his chest. They were but a foot away now as she moved to stand close in front of him, and she was even more bewitching up close.

To distract himself, Severus glanced towards her plate of mostly cold and untouched food. It looked as though she had helped herself to whatever was in his fridge or food stores, but the fact that most of her food was wasted did not sit well with him as he plucked a peach off the fruit bowl that she must have set in the middle of his kitchen table in the hopes of enticing him to eat something.

He eyed it inquisitively, turning the small fruit over in his hands before handing it to her. "Eat, you've barely eaten and I won't have my Healer passing out from starvation because you can't seem to manage to take proper care of yourself. You fret over me, but worry for yourself first and foremost," he barked in a rough voice as he rose from his chair, turning his head sharply in the hopes of avoiding her stare.

"I…thank you, I—I will eat it, Severus, I promise," Dahlia murmured, shaking her head, and taking it from him with slightly shaking fingers. She let out a startled gasp as their fingers brushed slightly from the interaction and quickly yanked her hand back, as though burned.

Severus lifted his gaze to eye her curiously out of the corner of his peripherals.

She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a kernel of distrust flicker in the man's dark eyes before he nodded and let out a grunt.

"Do," was all that Severus said to her and finally turned back around to face her, allowing her to get a proper good look at his attire in his black dress robes as he moved to stand in front of the windowsill.

His black robes did nothing to hide the man's frame, which, as he was no longer hiding underneath thick woolen cloaks, she could see was considerable and broad.

Severus boldly took a step forward, leaving Dahlia with nowhere to look but at him. To look anywhere else would have made her look nervous and skittish—two things she swore never to be around her patients in need of her help.

But there was no avoiding the wizard's face, however, she thought, as she sucked in her breath. That was easily the most jarring element of him of all.

His jaw was cut like steel, and his high cheekbones were all that was needed to give Severus Snape somewhat of a formidable and haughty appearance as he stared down his slightly hooked nose at her, his arms neatly folded behind his back. All traces of death from before, when she'd found him in the boathouse were slowly but surely fading away.

Nothing was haunting or ghost-like at all of this very solid presence of a tall, quiet wizard.

The edges of his lips turned up in a smirk as he noticed her eyeing him.

"You seem to have lost the power of speech, Dahlia," Snape drolled as he moved to turn away from her, motioning with a flourish of his arm for her to follow him out of the kitchen and down the hall. "No matter. I am sure you will regain it soon enough," he remarked, almost sounding amused.

The moment he spoke the words, it was as if Dahlia were awoken from a trance.

There was a strange warmth to his voice, which she was pleased to hear was sounding less hoarse. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, her facial expression registering what could only be described as shock, and she could only follow him.

She was barely able to draw in a good breath through the paralyzing stunned fervor that washed over her as she could have sworn she thought she saw him smile.

It felt as though the man's attention was fixated solely on her as he lingered by the front door.

He was waiting to see how she would react. As with anyone else in her life who would try to wrench emotion from her, Dahlia was not about to give her patient the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.

She simply regarded Severus Snape curiously as she strode towards the door and ducked underneath his arm and pulled the door open herself, checking the pockets of her cloak to ensure that she had her wand. Severus turned after her with a small frown as he waved his wand and the protective enchantments that had been put up around his home dissipated, though the charms that prevented them from Disapparating snaked their way throughout Spinner's End.

They would not be able to Apparate to Little Hangleton until they reached the end of the village.

Near where Father's house is, she thought and gulped. She hoped she would be able to maintain her composure as they passed it. Severus paused once he'd descended the front steps of his home and offered her his arm, which she slipped her own around without any sort of second thought. As she did so, she felt something grow within her the second her slender fingers curled around the man's arm.

A strange, budding desire, an affection that was almost foreign to her. Her gaze drifted down to his hands. Her first thought of the man's hands was that they were beautiful. Such long and delicate fingers, pale, graceful, and lovely, for a man. Then she thought that the man's nose, slightly hooked though it was, was nice, elegant, in its way, and his eyes, so rich and dark, pits of fathomless black, almost too dark to look directly into— Dahlia realized then that she was smiling, a warm blush creeping up her cheeks. With a start, she quickly came to understand she was attracted to the man.

His ridiculous little habits, his hands, his fondness for the color black, his heavy cloaks he hid inside, even the way his black hair tended to fall over his eyes. Dahlia had almost accidentally revealed herself just then, for she gasped aloud in horror that she was sure he'd heard it as he turned his gaze to stare.

The man had the nerve to raise his brows at her and shoot Dahlia a questioning look but did not probe, for which she was grateful. She shivered and tried not to pretend she didn't feel his piercing stare threatening to burn a hole right through the side of her skull, but Merlin, she felt the burning intensity.

Hotter than any Hungarian Horntail could flame, she wondered if the man had this effect on every witch he encountered or if it was just her. She swallowed down hard and tried to think of something to say as they walked at a slow pace down the cobblestoned streets. It was about three blocks to get to the end of the neighborhood and due to his stamina not quite being up to par yet where she'd have liked, she forced them to go slow, not wishing for Severus to overexert himself.

A sheen of sweat glittered along her scalp as she caught sight of her old childhood home coming up, three houses down to the left, and she felt her eyes widen, suddenly desperate to break the silence.

She did not want to think or look about those horrid walls ever again at all if she could help it. It took her a moment to find her voice, and she pulled back, forcing Severus to come to a halt with his movements. He slowly turned to regard her in silence, waiting for Dahlia to speak.

When she did speak, her voice was faint.

"Thank you, Severus. For…coming," she said in a soft voice, unable to meet his gaze, though she felt her fingers digging into the fabric of the sleeves of his robes.

"You may save your pleasantries, Dahlia, there is no need, if I hear your 'thanks' once more time, I might just throttle you, Hawthorne, so stop," Severus retorted immediately, sounding as though he did not want her thanks. His lips pursed into a thin line as his dark eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "As I mentioned to you last night, consider this a favor, Miss Hawthorne. You owe me. I will not forget it, but as to why I come, well, I should have thought it was obvious to a witch-like you, Dahlia. As long as I can remember, the Dark Lord's followers have been doing cruel things to women, the prettier the better in their mind," he drolly snapped, though his cheeks flushed red at the implication of his words as his eyes made a quick scan of her form in her dress before immediately looking away. "Were you to attend your father's wake without an escort, Dahlia, I cannot imagine what a few types like MacNair and Dolohov would do to you. Use their wands on you, if I had to hazard a guess, and would take a sick delight in torturing you before killing of you and disposing of your body. I don't wish to see you harmed. That is why I come, nothing more and nothing less than my benefit. As loathe as I am to admit it, my recovery has...benefited thus far greatly, with your help, Miss Hawthorne. I would not see you killed today," Severus replied casually, looking her up and down from head to toe.

She shivered as a cold chill traveled down her back that she knew had nothing to do with the coolness of the morning air. She tried to think of something to say.

"Well…again, thank you, for making sure that won't happen to me this morning," she whispered shyly and bit her bottom lip.

When all Severus did was stare back, she huffed in indignation and shrugged out of the man's grasp and walked ahead. Dahlia knew what she had asked of Snape was a lot and hoped to sound grateful.

She'd barely managed to give herself a few feet of separation, when she paused, and turned on the heels of her black ankle boots, furrowing her brows into a frown.

"This is where it would be polite of you to say to me, 'You're Welcome, Dahlia.' It's the proper way of replying to a thank you, Severus." The annoyance dripping from her tone was unmistakable, and she thought she saw a flicker of anger dart across the man's eyes as she bit down into the peach in her hand.

But as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and then the look of anger was replaced by a dangerous glint, one that had her swallowing, hard, and a look that Dahlia was not sure she at all liked on him.

Severus looked as though he had more he wanted to say on the matter, but Dahlia pulled him out of his thoughts with a loud sudden slurp. The peach he had offered her from the bowl in his kitchen table was very ripe, and its juices were dripping down her chin and onto the palm of her hand.

She let out a small, indignant cry and hurriedly pulled her arm away, trying to hide the mess from Snape and fumble in the pockets of her wand to conjure a handkerchief.

He smirked and reached into his pocket, beating her to it and pulling free a clean handkerchief and gently wiping the juices off her chin without a second thought, which surprised him, this sudden boldness. He had not behaved this way towards another since Lily. Dahlia blushed prettily and hastily took the handkerchief from him, finishing the job herself as she polished off the rest of the peach.

"Thank you," she murmured, ducking her head shyly.

"I will give you a proper welcome, Hawthorne, when you give me a proper thank you in return," Severus rasped hoarsely and Dahlia's face colored.

"I already thanked you politely, Snape," she huffed, "and if that's not the proper way then I don't know—"

"If you do not wish to thank me then properly, as a heroine would her hero, Miss Hawthorne, then I suggest that you cease pretending that I am one, though you would likely be one of the only few in all of Britain who thinks so."

Dahlia fell silent, unsure what to say. Her mouth set into a straight hard line as she turned around and boldly held eye contact with her patient.

She felt a surge of defiant anger course through her, and her feet began to move towards him seemingly of their own will, despite her brain screaming at her that this was not at all rational, that he was her patient for God's sake, Merlin helps her, this was unethical, what he wanted.

She knew she was growing attached to him, she could recognize the stirrings of this strange desire in the pit of her stomach, but she could not let herself give in completely. If she let herself fall completely into this emotional attachment as a means of coping with traumatic events in her life that she would just as soon put behind her, and give up her cognitive disinterestedness, then it was over.

She would never be able to bounce back and St. Mungo's, much less any other wizarding institution would not hire a Healer who was harboring the beginnings of affection for her patient. Dahlia was sure she'd need extensive therapy when her year with Severus Snape was up, regardless. She only hoped whoever she found would be discrete and take the patient-mental Healer privilege seriously as she did.

Still, her chest ached, and her throat hurt. She felt her lower lip trembling and her eyes squeeze shut for a moment as she strode towards him.

Snape's face and eyes gave absolutely no sign of what the practiced Legilimens was thinking, but when Dahlia came to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, he tensed underneath her tender touch. She had to lift herself on the tips of her toes, as the height difference between the two of them was almost laughable, as he was a good two heads taller than she was.

She pulled him down the rest of the way. Dahlia placed her lips to his cheek gently in a chaste and gentle kiss. Her body trembled slightly, but she reminded herself that him agreeing to come with her was at great personal risk to his own life, that this was the very least she could do.

When she took her lips away from his cheek and stared him right in the eye, Snape still kept his face towards Dahlia.

"I would have my welcome from you now," she said firmly, and she was rewarded with an odd little half-smile from Severus Snape. Something she admittedly never thought that she would ever see.

"You are welcome, Dahlia," he rasped, and she turned to intertwine her arm with his once more, though halted her movements as he continued speaking. "But don't think this constitutes the repayment of this favor. You still owe me."

Her face reddened in anger, and she angrily ripped away from the man's grasp.

Why Snape had to make things so bloody difficult for her, Dahlia could not say why. She swallowed down hard as she felt his eyes on her and saw his smirk. He took enjoyment in deriving such an emotional reaction out of her, she was sure of it. He was so infuriatingly difficult.

He made her feel guilty for not gracing him with a kiss and then made her feel guilty when she did. Snape seemed to be a cruel man with little to no feeling. He shamed her into giving him a kiss, though it was to his cheek and no more was expected of her. She shook her head to herself and felt a wave of icy cold waft over her as she realized they now stood in front of her old childhood home.

All thoughts of anger and annoyance towards Severus Snape and the man's pretentious attitude vanished. She stiffened and craned her neck upward to look at, not having set one foot inside the man's home since she was seventeen. Now, she could see that two windows on the second story of her father's townhouse were broken, vandalized by someone, probably kids.

The house was dirty, and the paint chipped. One of the front steps of the stoop was broken in.

She had a terrifying thought of children breaking in on a prank or some kind of twisted dare and running into the wand of a Death Eater. Just standing in front of it like she was now, and the memories that came flooding to her brain as she looked up at the formidable structure that looked even more imposing in this dim light above their head, the grey clouds threatening a rainstorm, later on, put a sour taste in her mouth and an ache in her chest that was almost unbearable.

If she had it her way, now that Father was dead and she was likely the executor to his will and assets, she would burn his house and everything within her walls to the ground with Fiendfyre. She did not want to ever set foot inside of that haunted house ever again. Dahlia squeezed her eyes shut and willed the unpleasant images of Father's leering face in her mind to simply leave.

The witch very nearly jumped out of her skin, a startled cry was ripped from her lips as she felt a firm hand grip her shoulder. Dahlia blinked, alarmed, as she tore her gaze away from the front of her old home and turned on her heels to look up at Snape, having to crane her neck to do it.

The wizard's rough hand moved away from her shoulder and up to her face.

Dahlia sniffed and struggled not to flinch away as his hand touched her face clumsily. He dragged the pads of his fingertips slowly down her cheek in what she assumed he must think was an affectionate gesture. When the simple touch did not do enough for him, his hands drifted to her arms and squeezed, as if Snape feared she might float away.

She grimaced and tried to get out of Snape's hard grip, but he was too strong.

Dahlia looked Severus Snape over with a speculative frown. Neither one of them said a word.

Everyone had told her, from the moment Snape had entered into her care as her patient, that he was a dangerous man, a formidable wizard who was not to be trifled with. The budding affection she felt for the man, she thought was sure counted as trifling, she guessed, no matter what she did. But nothing about Severus Snape seemed dangerous at this moment. Not his black hair, his boots, his dress robes.

She kept her eyes locked on his and watched the man's cheeks turn from pale white to pink in the space of the few seconds as she moved to stand even closer, so close that her hands were almost flush against his broad chest. She saw the way he straightened his gait and flicked his tongue over his lips as if he was tasting the air for her scent.

But he did not move to grab her, even when she was only inches from him.

"Come, you do not need to be here, witch, we're already running late for his service as it is and I'd rather not spend the entirety of my day in front of this dead bastard's tomb because you cannot seem to pull yourself together long enough to pull yourself away from this place that has only caused you pain. If you stay here, you torture yourself," he rasped somewhat meanly, in the hopes it would provoke her enough to move, his voice low and urgent. He had sensed the cold distress that had settled over her and her mouth, which was already dry, went dryer. He frowned as he looked at her. "Do not trouble yourself over your father's…colleagues. I promised I would keep you safe and I will. The Dark Lord's followers, what's left of them, most are afraid of me, I suspect," he commented dryly. "No one will dare lay a hand against you, if they attempt it, I will kill them," he promised vehemently.

Dahlia hesitated, her breaths catching in her throat. She could hardly believe it was true, but his words were spoken with such conviction, and as she lifted her gaze to his eyes, they were as grim as a graveyard. She gently rubbed her thumb over his cheek, feeling her tears beginning to dry up a bit.

She nodded slowly.

"Severus," she whispered, his name sounding strange but not altogether unpleasant on her lips. "Take me there and away from here. I...I can't look at it anymore," she choked out in a faint voice trembling with emotion. "Please," she begged, a witch who was unused to begging, begged this one thing of the man.

Dahlia blew out a shuddering breath and spared one last look of revulsion at her childhood home. He offered her a slight incline of his head by way of response and motioned with a jerk of his head towards his outstretched arm that he offered for her to take.

Without even realizing she was doing so, she wound her arm around Severus's and allowed the wizard to turn on his heels and Disapparate with her to the graveyard in Little Hangleton, spiriting her away from the house that had been her prison.