The Past Comes Back to Haunt Us

3rd August, 1991

Irene

Irene was in dire need of the drink Rosmerta had just set down before her. Of course, she didn't want to seem too off-balance. The other teachers, after all, did not seem thrown by the revelation that they would protect the Philosopher's Stone at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. Irene still failed to understand why, exactly, the stone was kept here and not in France, where the stone's owner currently resided, or at Gringotts, arguably the safest place in the United Kingdom. She didn't understand why the third floor corridor was from now on forbidden territory – and why, on earth, there was no true physical barrier between Hagrid's three-headed beast and the staircase students had to use every day. A locked door was easily unlocked by any student above the age of thirteen.

"You look shaken," Snape said. He had taken the seat opposite her only to torment her, she knew. He must have noticed how quiet she had been on the way here and seized the chance to rub it in. "Of course, the responsibilities can be taxing, especially for those …."

"If you mean to insinuate that I am not yet up to my duties, I relish taking the wind out of your sails and agree with you. I am under the strain of a new job and am taking my time to figure things out. I have never taught before. I am determined to do it right. I think that is what matters."

"Allow me," Snape said, his dark voice sliding over the vowels like a snake, "to offer you some advice as a more seasoned colleague."

She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity. Snape was a skilled potioner, and perhaps even an efficient teacher but she was quite certain that his teaching style was nothing she'd want to emulate. She, for one, did want to be fair.

"I am all ears," she said despite that, if only to distract herself from Quirrell's ridiculous turban to her right, smelling not so faintly of garlic. "Shall I get a notebook, perhaps?"

He ignored her. "Dewy-eyed optimism is your safest and shortest path to disappointment, failure and, eventually, resignation."

"You suggest hard-eyed pessimism, I suppose?"

Snape sneered as if he had expected her response.

"Open-eyed realism. Though of course, to the more limited mind, the acceptance of bitter facts often seems hard-eyed and pessimistic."

She had just reached for her glass to take another sip but couldn't let his comment slide.

"How would you know? First-hand experience?" The drink was forgotten again, the stone was forgotten for now.

"Second-hand observation." His lips curled into a derisive smile colder than the ice cubes in her cherry wine.

"Yes, I remember your perceptiveness. You saw through people in school already, didn't you?"

The boy gang he had hung out with, the girl he had trailed after like a lost duckling…

"If this is going to be a cheap shot concerning my former loyalty to the Dark Lord and his followers, I can assure you preemptively that I have heard cleverer remarks without wasting my time and breath on your effort."

"I was not going to bring up Voldemort in a pub, actually," Quirrell next to her twitched at the mention of his name but she barely noticed. He was a twitchy fellow. "I have good manners," she added, her voice inflected to suggest that he, on the contrary, did not.

"And I am certain you will reveal them any minute."

"Not in your presence, I feel. You might have noticed that you have this effect on people."

She should not have said that. His expression changed slightly, the derisive smile turned into a mocking sneer.

"Which effect do I have on you, Bertram?" His voice was soft as a caress, his tone dripping with venom. "Enlighten me."

"Have you ever noticed people being rather…impolite to you?"

Snape raised a hand in a fluent movement, indicating her. "Occasionally."

"Have you considered that you might be the incentive?"

"If I were to spend my days wondering in what way my behaviour might influence others, I fear my level of efficiency would barely rival yours."

"No," she smiled, pleasantly, she hoped. "You do not spend much time on self-reflection."

"A remarkably fatuous deduction, I might argue, but what for? You have already formed your opinion, based on hearsay, prejudice and twelve-year-old memories. I dare say you are the one who spends little time on self-reflection, but it is in the nature of the unreflected to deny this heatedly."

"Then I shall try to surprise you by saying nothing on this matter anymore and diverting the conversation to less delicate topics."

"I see little need to carry on a conversation simply for the sake of talking. Though by all means, if you would like to prattle on, I know I will find it hard to stop you."

A delicate cough to her right indicated that the other teachers had taken notice of their conversation.

Irene turned away from Snape, giving McGonagall – Minerva – an apologetic smile.

"Now that we all have received our drinks," she said, a shade too sternly, "it is time for our traditional toast to the coming school year." Her tone left no one in the dark about her mild disapproval of this tradition. Yet, Dumbledore beamed at his staff, his blue eyes piercing them one by one.

"To the coming year," he said, raising a glass of mead. Irene wrapped her finger about her own glass in an effort to hide the sip or two she had already taken – an effort Snape commented on with a taunting huff. This time, she managed to ignore him. He had always been able to set her teeth on edge, even in school. It was worse because she had never had the same effect on him. Snape remained annoyingly smooth. It was like trying to hold on to a snake. And if she allowed this to continue, to escalate further, she'd have to pack her bags before they had reached the portal again.

Yet, she was now faced with either sitting quietly at the end of the table, listening to Snape's quiet taunts and resisting the urge to respond, or talking to Quirrell on her right. He, too, had been at school with them, a few years younger, or older perhaps, now that she thought about it. A Ravenclaw but without any of the usual talent or eccentricity, she had all but forgotten him until he had introduced himself two days earlier. He had stuttered on about his travels, his magical discoveries, his determination to rise above himself and the expectations of his peers, his desire to teach more than Muggle Studies until Irene, by then convinced that no draught Snape (who was present and watching her growing annoyance with amusement) could concoct would have a more soporific effect, finally seized the chance to flee politely when Madam Pomfrey, whom she yet had to introduce herself to, entered the staff room. Ever since, she had evaded him.

RIght now, he was talking to Sprout on his other side and she had all the patience Irene lacked. Glad for the reprieve, she took another long sip of her wine. It was sweet and cool on this hot August day. Rosmerta kept the temperatures in her bar low and the sun shut out. In fact, it did seem as if time stood still in the wood-panelled room. It had been much more crowded during her Hogwarts days, all the benches and chairs occupied by students, fighting for the bar owner's attention. Rosmerta herself had aged suspiciously slowly. She had already been the bar owner when Irene had been in her third year, but she didn't look like it. "Everything alright here, dears?" She came over with swaying hips, resting a hand on her shoulder briefly while smiling at the potion master. Save your smiles, she wanted to advise her, when to her great surprise, Snape inclined his head in recognition.

"A good vintage."

"Well, Severus, the next one's only a call away."

Irene thought she caught her winking at him but Snape's face remained stoic as he nodded again, evidently not planning on sampling her vintage again.

When Rosmerta set off to make her rounds, she followed her to the restroom. Even here, everything was the same. In the third stall from the left, she allowed her fingers to roam over the wood of the door, polished by hundred of robes and cloaks brushing against it.

A little below eye level, her fingers traced the familiar initials. I&B, the figure eight on its side carved around them, one letter in each loop. Someone else, later, had tried to turn the symbol into a heart and , Irene thought, as she traced the symbol again and again, her fingers never leaving the eight. But I&B had not lasted forever. They had, in fact, not even lasted more than a year. And just when they had met again, all flustered looks and red cheeks, the symbol was proven wrong once again with irrevocable finality.

You always meet twice.

There had been hope in that saying once. Yet now, there were so many people she had met twice, people she knew she would never meet again, and the saying held only a cruel irony.

Irene pushed the stall door open again, unable to stay back any longer. She washed her hands in haste, catching only a passing glance at her reflection.

"The past is the past," she told herself, fully aware of how strange that was. "There's no changing it."

Her own amber eyes stared back at her impatiently.

"Right," she told her reflection, wiping her hands dry. "Right."

She didn't look back as she left the restroom.

2nd September, 1991

Severus

Severus had satiated his curiosity about the Potter boy at the feast yesterday. Of course he was now sitting at the Gryffindor table, his untidy hair sticking up like his father's had, though the boy had not yet started to tousle it on purpose. A matter of time. Otherwise it seemed he was his father's son. He had already gathered a loyal pureblood follower trailing after him like a puppy. Weasley was this Potter's Black.

He had her eyes. Of all the features she could have passed on to Potter's son, it had to be her eyes. Severus had found himself thinking of them again yesterday night. They had not haunted him for some time, now, it seemed, the reprieve was over. He had not been prepared for the pain, although he had thought so before. Her eyes, gazing up at him quizzically, the wounded look with which the boy had suddenly turned away. How much did he know? Severus wondered.

The night had been long. He had dreaded sleeping but had not evaded it. The dreams would come anyway, he knew that much by now.

When the grey light of dawn had finally reached his bedchamber, he had awoken, shaking, sweating, despicable. Breakfast was another chore, though one he knew he wouldn't have to sit through in silence.

However much Bertram annoyed him – and she did so considerably – there was an advantage in being seated next to her.

She came hurrying into the Great Hall at quarter to nine. Severus, by now, was used to having much space to his right in the mornings. It made it easier to read his papers in silence, too. And then, when his mind had time to wonder, no longer occupied with the trifles and tragedies the Prophet wrapped in toe-curlingly sensational sentences, she would be there, distracting him. Bertram had the annoying habit of babbling, and as Bathsheba on her right was rather unresponsive during meals, she had turned to him, prattling on about everything, from the consistency of her scrambled eggs to her favourite type of jam-filled donut. Severus hated himself for knowing that it was raspberry. Every morning, without fail, she came hurrying up the long aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, raising the hem of her robes for a quicker gait. She would then plonk herself down on the chair next to him, reaching for eggs and toast, and then later, five minutes before the bell would announce the end of breakfast, for jam and crumpets. It was a bad habit, he thought, to have sweets for breakfast. As he glanced past his newspaper, he saw that she had pulled her hair out of her face, perhaps an attempt to look more professional. In that case, he mused, as he surveyed her hair, she should have chosen different pins. The ones that held her heavy, mid-brown hair in place for now were flimsy golden ones, shiny and flat and each set with a delicate, six-petalled flower made of golden wire.

"Do you like them?"

His bad luck that she was unusually perceptive this morning.

"I was under the impression that this is your first day of school as a teacher, not a student."

His well-practised sneer always lifted his mood, if only momentarily. She never failed to react. It was unwise of her, of course, to rise to every challenge he offered, to waste her time on trifles like this, but Severus wouldn't tell her. Not when her presence offered the smallest diversion from the tedium of his life.

"Well, aren't you astute?" She quirked a brow, chewing her egg. "It is indeed. That's why I am seated next to you, and not, as in our school days, with two long tables between us. Although those were better days, perhaps."

She didn't know how right she was for once.

"I wonder then why you are adorning your hair the way a first year would."

"For some people, adornment might seem trivial and an all black wardrobe sensible, yet I am not one of them."

See gulped down some pumpkin juice and threw a glance at the clock. "Lovely chatting to you, Snape. If you want to borrow some of my hairpins, let me know."

"I shall refer the first years to you."

She squeezed the last bite of crumpet into her mouth as she pushed her chair back. With a full-mouthed grin at him, she left dais through the narrow side door and Severus alone with his thoughts. He glanced down at the Gryffindor table where Potter was looking at his timetable, listening to Weasley. Their first day, and they would already be late. But what were rules for the famous Potter? Like father, like son. Severus took the last sip of cold coffee and allowed the tangy, bitter taste to fill his mouth.

Then he, too, got up, uncharacteristically late, and left through the side door. He still had time until his first lesson – Ravenclaw, thankfully, he was in no mood for the greater dunderheads. He would spend the time preparing for his lessons of the day. Students always messed up the neat order of his supply closet, so he would take out the substances he needed uncontaminated for the next lessons. The wolfsbane potion he would be teaching the N.E.W.T. students required a few stirs, he would have to see to that on the hour.

As Severus made his way to the side staircase, his gaze travelled over something glittering on the floor. As Severus bent down, he recognised it at once. A delicate golden flower. He should have left it lying on the ground for Filch's annoying cat or some first year student but instead, he picked it up. Perhaps he would give it back to her. She seemed like the sort that was unnaturally attached to her belongings.

Irene Bertram had never been a priority during his school days. She had been annoying, especially in Slughorn's classes, who had been as charmed by her as he had been by Lily. He could admit freely that she had been, by the standard of the class, a decent potion maker. Not exceptional and certainly undeserving of the O she had been awarded with. She had always been too experimental, getting distracted too quickly. Their rivalry for top of the class had been a phenomenon of their N.E.W.T. years. At the time, angry with every Gryffindor, he had been determined to put her in her place. He had succeeded but it had served him little. Bertram had been accepted into the auror program and he had joined the Death Eaters, bitter and angry. Severus closed his eyes, a ritualised movement to clear his head.

He had class in an hour and couldn't afford this sort of flashback. It was ill luck that Bertram had turned up, and worse that she reminded him of days he would have rather forgotten. Yet, in his current situation, she was not the worst that could have happened.

There was another reminder that would be sitting in the potions dungeon later that day, and that one made him forget Irene Bertram on the spot. The boy with Potter's look but her eyes, her beautiful, almond-shaped green eyes. It was a cruel joke, one last prank from James Potter.

The boy was quite as he had expected. Ignorant and arrogant, seemingly too famous to open a book before he had come to Hogwarts, expecting, probably, that his name and his scar would see him through. Not in his class.

The cold rage Potter's boy had awoken didn't die down all day, strengthened by the fools that filled his classrooms, adding wrong ingredients in the wrong order, disobeying the instructions with careless idiocy. He had a melted cauldron and a swollen hand before lunch, a burned desk and blisters after.

Severus was glad when the bell rang for dinner.

He was late for dinner today, having had to deal with the folly of some Hufflepuff students , and arrived only moments before Bertram. He remembered the tiny thing in his pocket then.

"One of your flowers is missing," he informed her as she took her seat, looking a little dishevelled.

She raised a hand to her hair at once. "Oh. Thanks." It took her a moment to fumble the pin out of her hair, so entangled had it become after the long day. He thought for a moment she would simply put it away and resume eating but she rummaged through the pocket of her robes, pulling out her wand at last. With some concentration she pointed it at the pin. "Flos aureus." She traced the six-petalled form into the air and golden thread spun itself into the delicate shape he had picked up earlier.

When the flower had settled on the end of the pin, she put it back into her hair.

"They're a bit of a pain, really, I lose them all the time. The charm's not the best, of course, from some teenage witch magazine. Bewitching Beauty, or so. I've always wanted to add a sticking spell but it was never a priority and to be quite honest, I was never exceptional at Charms."

She picked up her fork again. "The pie is delicious, isn't it?"

Severus picked up his own fork, the flower in his pocket heavy as a boulder. Her magic. It was strange to think of her as a creator, somehow.

And, he thought, as he stared down at the soggy mess of steak pie on his plate, she must have been exceptional at Charms, at least for Hogwarts level. Top grades were a requirement for auror training and she had gotten into the program – she had just not been able to finish her training. One reason for this, he thought, as he chewed the pie mechanically, was certainly her lack of discipline. He doubted her trainers had let her get away with her habitual lateness.

She seemed tired after what, to her, had probably been a laborious day, and refrained from the usual babbling. He didn't miss it and was glad for the chance to finish his meal in peace for once.

All in all, he was glad when dinner was over and he could return to the soothing darkness of his dungeon rooms. There was homework waiting to be graded on the first day of term but he walked past his desk, right into the snug living room he had inhabited for ten years now.

The golden wire was warm in his fingers as he pulled the flower out of his pocket and set it down on the mantlepiece. It glimmered in the dim light that came through the narrow windows high up in the wall. If there had been a fire in the fireplace, he would have thrown it in but the hearth was cold and empty on a rather warm day. Severus left it lying next to some books and an old candleholder. He would throw it away next time he lit the fire.

Homework was waiting for him. There was no use in putting it off.