"...and then I just sort of...froze up. I hadn't a clue what to do, so after gaping at him like a fish out of water for a few seconds, I ran. It was so...creepy."
Rosaline shuddered as she finished recounting the events of the previous night to the Grey Lady, who was hovering in a sitting position just above a blue velvet upholstered chair in the History of Magic professor's private chambers, frowning anxiously and fingering the ribbon 'round her neck.
"How very strange indeed," she said after a moment.
"Isn't it, though?" sighed Rosaline, as she sat back in her seat. "I don't want to sound insulting, but...it felt like you do. Not you in particular, but like a ghost. It was so cold, and so..." she trailed off, picking at an invisible bit of fluff on her robes.
"Unearthly?" the Grey Lady offered.
"...sad. And angry. Heartbroken. Do you think...do you think it was some sort of possession?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," the spectre said softly. "A spirit would had to have been very powerful in life to be able to possess a person in death."
"Hogwarts has been home to many powerful witches and wizards," Rosaline pointed out, remembering her conversation with Flitwick the day before. "Something traumatic might have happened to one of them here. But if that is the case, why would he or she surface now? The last extremely powerful wizard to attend this school was You-Know-Who, and he was proven to still be alive last year, if only in the loosest sense of the word. And besides, I can't really see him mourning over love's labours lost, even as a student."
The Grey Lady looked uncertain. "Perhaps you should see the headmaster about it?"
"What, two and a half weeks into my tenure here? What would I say? 'Hello, Professor Dumbledore. I've just begun working here and I fear I'm being possessed by an anonymous ghost prone to violent outbursts. Pay no attention to my brief residency in an asylum for the mentally unwell and believe me without a second thought'? No thank you. I'd much rather keep my job."
"An asylum?!" the Ravenclaw ghost exclaimed, one hand flying to her mouth, aghast. "You? Whatever for?"
Oh, stupid! Why can't you learn to hold your tongue in private? You do so well with it in public... Rosaline shut her eyes briefly in a wince, her hands balling unconsciously into fists around the sleeves of her robes as the memories rushed back into her mind for a moment before she forced them away. "It was a long time ago. I was under a lot of stress---or at least I thought I was---and I just...broke down. But I got over it, and have been relatively balanced for five years now. Until last night, at any rate. Gods, I hope I'm not losing it again..." She sighed and slumped forward, rubbing her temples tiredly.
"Oh, Rosaline," the Grey Lady murmured, "you're not. I'm positive you're not. Possessions are extremely rare, yes, but they're not impossible. And if it was so fleeting, then chances are it either won't return, or will jump to another host, in which case you won't be the only one with such a claim."
Not bloody likely, Rosaline inwardly groused, but kept quiet. Blatant pessimism would get her nowhere with this. Instead, she gave the ghost a wan smile. "I would be eternally thankful were I to be so lucky. Thank you, milady."
The Grey Lady smiled in return, then arched an eyebrow as Rosaline stood. "Are you leaving?"
"I'm afraid so---I've got a class in ten minutes."
"Ah, of course. Shall I accompany you downstairs, then?"
"Please," Rosaline nodded. "I would enjoy that very much."
The two women made their way out of the room, Rosaline closing and locking the door behind them, and began their descent to the first floor of the castle.
~*~*~*~*~*~
What remained of September drifted past without further incident, much to the relief of both parties involved in the staffroom phenomenon. Neither Severus nor Rosaline had spoken to each other of the odd occurence, though one would occasionally catch the other in a calculating stare (she had no doubt that he thought her mad; she thought him correct), which was enough to put both of them on edge with shudders of discontent and wariness. Rosaline especially had all but given up any attempts at food or sleep, sometimes doubled up with the tight discomfort that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her stomach, and that amplified with every thought of the Potions master that crossed her overactive mind.
Thus, it seemed only natural that when the beginning of October brought with it a damp chill throughout the castle, she was one of the first to take ill, and one of the last be treated. For all her paranoia concerning her health, her time spent in St. Mungo's had given her an aversion to hospitals in any shape or form. In this manner, she resisted every effort made by both the Grey Lady and Professor Flitwick to get her to see Madam Pomfrey for a good dose of Pepperup potion, saying that she never felt well anyway and that there was little point in seeking out a medicinal remedy for something she could and was practically familiar with suffering through.
She got through her classes all right, assigning written work and rarely leaving her desk so as not to draw attention to her weak, shaky muscles by standing and writing on the blackboard. However, it didn't take long for her appearance to shift from "sickly" to "downright horrible," to the point where whatever pains she went to in order to conceal how awful she truly felt became futile. She was deathly pale but for a bright cherry flush of fever colouring her cheeks and forehead, the circles beneath her eyes were darkened, and her hair---normally swept back into a neat chignon with a few strands left free down her back---was unkempt, tangled and messily pinned up.
It was on a Thursday morning near the middle of the month that her body finally decided to force her to acknowledge its infirmity, not allowing her to so much as leave her bed.
Groaning, Rosaline rolled over on her side, wrapping the covers around herself as tightly as she could and shivering, her head searing hot and the rest of her freezing cold. A painful cough wracked her frail form, rattling through her throat which felt as though it had been rubbed down with steel wool. She felt like she was slipping in and out of time, in and out of a consciousness that her mind clung to and her body fought against. She was scarcely aware of a half frantic voice calling her name at some point, and recoiled sharply as something that felt like a glacial breath hissed over her shoulder and then drew quickly away.
She floated along in a daze, her eyes halfway open and not registering most of what was going on in her surroundings. She was vaguely aware that she was not alone---someone else was there, bustling around at first and then pressing a glass to her lips. The liquid within it stunk of foul herbs that made her stomach churn, and she pushed the glass away and buried her face in her pillow.
"Oh no you don't," an annoyed but concerned voice snapped, and suddenly warm hands were turning her over onto her back, gently but very firmly. They tilted her head back and closed over her nose, and before she could think clearly enough to protest the glass was at her mouth again and tipping the fetid liquid down her gullet. Rosaline choked and coughed excruciatingly, certain she was going to be sick as her leaden eyes closed and she sank back down into the pillows, and into an abrupt, deep slumber.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Excuse me, Professor Snape? May I have a word with you?"
The Potions master paused in his interrogation of fourth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs on the uselessness of their taking the Wit-Sharpening Potion that was their assignment for the day, and turned to glare at the interrupting wraith hovering near the back of his classroom. "This had better be of dire importance," he growled as he stalked toward the door.
"It is, sir, I assure you," the Grey Lady nodded, one hand clutched in a fist near her throat, looking very fretful.
They left the room, Snape halting once at the threshold to cast a dangerous scowl at his students, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan in particular, who were looking a bit too eager about their armadillo bile. "Do not move, do not think, do not so much as breathe until I return, or you'll be spending Christmas in detention whether you're planning on going home for the holidays or not," he warned them, then followed the Ravenclaw ghost out into the dungeon corridor.
"It's Professor Rosebridge," she explained before he could ask. "The poor thing's terribly ill---"
"And how is that any concern of mine?" Snape cut in, his irritation multiplying tenfold with the knowledge that that damnable madwoman had now managed to disrupt not only his thoughts, but his work as well.
The Grey Lady looked delicately horrified, a confounded and disapproving frown distorting her pretty face. "It is your concern," she said slowly, her anger evident in her voice, "because Madam Pomfrey has run out of Salveoserum. She asked me to come down here to see if you happened to have any on hand, and if you did, to ask you to bring it up to Professor Rosebridge's rooms as soon as possible."
Snape breathed a heavy, annoyed sigh and ran a hand through his greasy hair, contemplating the amount of time he could get away with prolonging the History of Magic professor's suffering, and the odds of his deliberate procrastination getting back to the headmaster. With the incensed look the Grey Lady was giving him, he figured not very long, and very high. Dumbledore would be displeased with such a mean-spirited show of pettiness: Deducting House points right and left from students that weren't his own was one thing; it was quite another to knowingly suspend the convalescence of a fellow teacher, regardless of his personal opinion of her. Better to have her indebted to me than to be made to apologise to her for my...reluctance.
"I have the potion," he begrudgingly admitted, a resentful glower settling on his features, "but I can't take it up just yet. In case you hadn't noticed, you did interrupt me in the middle of teaching a class."
"I can watch your class until you return." It was an order, not an offer, but Snape objected to it nevertheless.
"Milady, I would prefer you did not. This class contains both Fred and George Weasley, who, I believe you are aware, cannot be left under the supervision of anyone unwilling to bestow upon them only the strictest punishments for their antics."
The Grey Lady floated a few inches higher and looked down on the Potions master imposingly. "And I believe you are aware that I was the queen of England for nine days. If I can manage a country, I'm certain a pair of boisterous teenage boys will not pose much of a challenge."
Snape resisted the urge to spitefully comment how well the spectre's short stint as queen had turned out, but grazed pointedly over the ribbon around her neck with his eyes. "As you wish," he surrendered, his voice a low hiss of dubious malice, and started for his office across the hall as the Grey Lady retreated into the Potions classroom.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Weightless.
She was weightless, floating beneath the frozen surface of a lake, or maybe an ocean. Was she drowning? Or had she already drowned? It was difficult to tell...
Fish swam alongside her, if swimming was what one could call it. They glided past on their own currents, their fins still, their gills making no attempts to puff for breath. Brilliant blues and greens, reds and yellows, all of them content to simply let the tide carry them where it may. She wasn't sure if she was envious of them, or if she pitied them. Was she trapped, or was she motionless of her own will?
Either way, she was cold, cold and unhappy. With her face upturned, she stared through the glasslike barrier between her world and the other. The dry world, in which He walked. She was certain she would no longer be cold, if only she had Him to warm her.
Damn it, He was right there, right on the other side of the ice, peering down at her with an impassive expression. She reached up to touch Him, to run a hand along His cheek, but felt only the chilled wall that separated them. Why couldn't she reach Him?
And then His expression changed, rippled from one lacking emotion to one of wounded pride, anger and hurt. The image of His face faded as He rose, and began to walk away.
No! she thought frantically, No! Please! Please don't leave me! Stay! Stay with me, please! Don't go!
She opened her mouth to call out to Him, but she had no breath to speak, and no way for Him to hear her. The ice was too thick.
I will break through, she thought, I will break through, and I will find him, and I will make him stay with me!
She hit the ice, her motions slowed by the water. Madly, she punched and clawed at the barrier, scraping and bruising her knuckles until they ached, until they numbed. Blood curled through the water in translucent ribbons of red, and still she lashed out.
A hairline fracture spider-webbed through the ice with a quiet crackle.
Yes! I'm so close...I'm almost there, I can feel it...
~*~*~*~*~*~
Madam Pomfrey frowned reproachfully at her patient, whose face was creased in discomfort as she slept, when a knocking that could only be described as cantankerous resonated through the door. As ghosts weren't prone to knocking, she knew instantly who it was, and answered it with some relief.
"Severus, finally," she said, standing back to allow the dark man entrance into Rosaline's private rooms. "Do you have the Salveoserum?"
"Of course I have it," Snape snapped, scowling daggers at the medi-witch as he handed over a small corked bottle of pinkish liquid. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Pomfrey ignored his tetchiness and set about measuring a dose of the potion in a small glass cup barely larger than a thimble. Severus took the opportunity to saunter over to the History of Magic professor's bed, curiosity and a slight enthusiasm at seeing her in poor health getting the better of his instinct to return immediately to his students in a show of how very little he cared about his colleague's wellbeing.
She did not look her best, to say the least. Her face was pink and blotchy, her black hair matted and clinging to her forehead and neck with sweat. Every so often, she would whimper, obviously in some sort of pain, and would stir in vain, trying to find some semblance of comfort. Snape frowned uneasily---the sight, much to his disquiet and apprehension, did not leave him as satisfied as he had expected it to.
"Severus?" Pomfrey's voice sliced through his thoughts, startling him out of his unnerving realisation. His gaze shifted toward the medi-witch questioningly. "I sedated her," she told him. "She's not going to be waking up for some time. You can go now, and thank you for the potion."
Snape nodded curtly and turned to leave, getting only a few steps away when the sound of breaking glass echoed familiarly in his ears. He spun around---Rosaline was thrashing wildly around in her bed; she'd knocked the Salveoserum out of Pomfrey's hand and sent it crashing to the floor. Wasteful little wench...
"Snape, help me!" Pomfrey barked, simultaneously trying to dodge the limbs lashing out at her and hold them down.
The Potions master glided quickly to her aid, bracing one knee on the bed as he slipped his hands along Rosaline's shoulders and down her arms to hold them still. Her skin was burning hot beneath his own.
"No!" she protested, arching up off the bed as she scrambled to pull free from his grip. "Please!"
"I thought you said she wasn't going to be waking up for some time?" he growled at Pomfrey, who was all but sitting on the other woman's legs to keep them from kicking out at her.
"I don't think she is awake," the medi-witch replied, uncorking a bottle filled with a deep violet potion with her teeth.
"Please don't leave me!" Rosaline exclaimed, her voice cracking.
Her words hit Severus like Bludger to his skull. His hold on her loosened, and she took advantage, twisting out of his grasp completely and swinging blindly at the air with her fists, one of which made contact firmly with his left cheekbone, jarring him back to reality. He caught her wrists and pinned them roughly at her sides, absently noting that the skin on the inside of both was rough and raised---scar tissue.
"Ooh, watch out, there," Pomfrey chuckled, now very much sitting on the other woman's legs as she poured out a second dose of the Salveoserum into the tiny glass she'd mended with her wand. "She's got quite a left hook."
"Just shut up and sedate her again," he snarled, pressing down harder on Rosaline's wrists.
~*~*~*~*~*~
He was waiting for her, she knew. She could see Him right on the periphery of her vision. Oh gods, she was so close, and He was so near, His dark robes and hair whipping back in a faint breeze as He watched her struggle. He was waiting for her, but He was growing impatient. She was taking too long, far too long.
She felt herself becoming weaker with every punch. Why wouldn't the ice just break already?
She couldn't lose Him, not when she was this close, not when...
A bitter taste formed in her mouth, and she weakened further, her punches becoming mere taps on the surface of her frozen prison. She was paralysed, sinking down into the water's black depths. She couldn't move---why couldn't she move?! She had to fight! She had to break free! Why wouldn't her body obey her?
No! her mind screamed. Let me go! I wasn't finished yet! Damn it, no!
But it was too late---she'd already sunk so far, spiralling down into the darkening water, the only crack she'd been able to make in the ice becoming smaller and smaller the deeper she sank, until it became so dark that she could not see at all.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Severus slowly relaxed his hold on the young witch as she gradually calmed down from the effects of the Salveoserum diluted in a Sleep-Inducing Draught, one of her hands clutching limply at one of his. She didn't resist when he extracted his fingers from her lifeless grip.
Her face was more tranquil than it had been before, though the small frown lines between and around her eyes remained, telling of her continuing physical misery. But as he watched, even those faded as she slipped deeper into unconsciousness, until she looked like any other sleeping woman save for the ongoing flush of her cheeks.
"If she stirs from that," said Pomfrey, "I'll grow a third arm."
"What she said..." Snape trailed off, not taking his eyes off of the History of Magic professor, as if he didn't trust the medi-witch's assurance that another outburst from her was next to impossible in her current drugged state.
"A vivid dream, probably due to the fever." Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "It's so infuriating when people are excessively stubborn in regards to their health. A dose of Pepperup potion the moment she started feeling less than one hundred percent could have prevented this, but no, people have to think they can tough it out without any assistance..." She sighed, muttering under her breath something about the inconsiderateness of the obstinate, but Snape wasn't really listening to her, his attention focused elsewhere, on Rosaline and the last words she'd spoken.
That was the second time she'd asked him not to leave her.
Someone else, a person unknown; not me, he told himself. Both instances just happened to be in my presence. It means nothing.
He could have chalked it up to a general imbalance in the chemistry of her mind---wanted to chalk it up to that; it would have made things much easier, much more cut and dry---but he couldn't help but feel that there was a gaping hole in that particular theory.
Things were never so easy for Severus Snape, and rarely---very rarely---were they ever cut and dry. There was something else here, some mysterious variable that would explain why these outbursts of hers seemed to only ever occur in his presence (as he had heard of no other instances of anything similar happening between her and one of the other staff members, and in a school like Hogwarts, with the exception of himself and occasionally Minerva McGonagall, people were prone to talking---at great length, no matter if the person they were speaking to was interested in what they had to say or not).
Some mysterious variable that would explain the sudden and very alien inclination of concern he harboured for her welfare.
Now that she was sleeping soundly, Snape glanced sideways at Pomfrey. The medi-witch was busying herself with her small brown leather satchel, replacing the empty potion bottles on the other woman's bedside table within it. Hesitantly, he leaned forward on the bed once more and lifted up one of Rosaline's hands, turning it over palm-up to confirm his suspicions. A jagged scar, beginning at the base of her palm to nearly one-quarter of the way up her forearm, lined her wrist. A vertical cut, and a deep one---she had been serious when she had made it. He didn't need to check her other wrist to know that it held a twin mark.
He had to consciously will his face into a disgusted sneer. To a creature of logic such as he, suicide was one of the most appalling acts a person could attempt, right next to love. Both were completely pointless, nothing but eventual loss at either end. He'd been tempted by the idea of suicide before, in darker days, but his furiously rational mind had rebelled against it just before that particular poison could touch his lips. He'd been too revolted with his own weakness to allow it to continue; it was an insult to his intellect, and that was the one thing he had never ceased to take pride in. Any person stupid enough to actually follow through with such a worthless deed as suicide was deserving of their fate, and the details surrounding their decision were of neither consequence nor care to him.
Thus, when he found himself curious as to what could have possibly driven her to cause the ugly white lines disfiguring her pallid wrists, he dropped her hand immediately and swept out of the room. The Grey Lady would be wondering what was keeping him so long in absentia.
~*~*~*~*~*~
There was indeed no need for Madam Pomfrey to grow a third arm---Rosaline did not wake again until noon the next day. She blinked the residual burn of sleep from her eyes blearily, and grimaced at the sour taste in her mouth before realising that she felt a great deal better than she had the last time she had regained consciousness. Her fever had broken, and aside from her stiff and aching muscles from having been asleep for so long, she felt rather refreshed, despite being in dire need of a toothbrush.
"Awake at last," said a soft, slightly echoing voice to her left. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Rosaline croaked as she sat up in bed and languidly stretched, rotating her neck and curling her toes before suddenly freezing, her eye widening with panic. "Oh, bloody hell---what time is it?" she demanded of the ghost sitting patiently at her bedside.
"About ten minutes past twelve o'clock, I believe," the Grey Lady answered, standing as Rosaline hurriedly struggled to disentangle herself from the covers.
"Damn it," the young witch swore under her breath, "my classes, I can't believe I---"
"Rosaline," the ghost interrupted. "It's Friday."
The History of Magic professor blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "Friday?! But---you mean to tell me I slept through all of Thursday---the headmaster---I missed---" she stammered, her panic doubling. "I can't believe I---Dumbledore's going to sack me!"
"Calm yourself, child!" the Grey Lady urged, floating in front of the flustered woman. "You still have your job. When I didn't see you at breakfast yesterday, I came up here to see if anything was wrong, and found that you'd taken quite ill. I informed Madam Pomfrey and then the headmaster of your condition. All is well."
"All is not well!" Rosaline exclaimed. "That was hugely irresponsible of me, abandoning my students---oh, goodness, my students---who's been teaching my classes?"
"Ah," the ghost sighed, looking apprehensive for the first time since Rosaline had awakened, "I believe Professor Lockhart volunteered to undertake that task."
Rosaline's eyes widened further, horrified. "Lockhart?! You can't be serious! Oh, I need to get down there...gods only know what rubbish he's been filling their heads with..." She quickly ducked into her bathroom, not bothering to shut the door as she scrubbed her face with icy water to bring herself fully into the conscious world. The Grey Lady followed, hovering in the threshold.
"What you need to do is return to your bed and rest," she said adamantly.
"I've been sleeping for more than a day," Rosaline retorted, squeezing a bit of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. "I'm not going to get anymore rested." As if on cue, she turned her head and coughed hoarsely into her hand. The spectre arched a disbelieving eyebrow at her.
"You're still not completely healed---"
"I'll never be 'completely healed'."
"---and unless you're itching for a relapse, you will return to your bed and continue on with healing peacefully, or I will inform Madam Pomfrey of your stubbornness and she will chain you to a bed in the hospital wing until you are well again."
Rosaline paused, toothbrush suspended in front of her mouth, and eyed the Grey Lady sceptically. "You wouldn't."
"I'm dead, dear; I've got nothing to lose."
The young witch gaped at the ghost for a few moments, trying to decipher whether or not the phantom was having her on. The Grey Lady's stern expression did not waver, her back straight, regal and unyielding. "...you are wicked!" Rosaline gasped accusingly. The Grey Lady merely smiled.
"Don't be preposterous, I haven't a wicked bone in my body."
"You have no bones," the History of Magic professor muttered before petulantly shoving the toothbrush into her mouth. Satisfied that her living friend would not make an escape attempt anytime in the near future, the Grey Lady drifted back to the chair she had been sitting in.
A couple of minutes later, Rosaline emerged from her bathroom (Blessed menthol-mouth.) and crawled back onto the bed, propping herself up with a few pillows against the massive oak headboard and looking to the ghost with a sigh and a small fit of coughing.
"All right, since I'm going to be held captive, would you mind telling me all that went on yesterday?" she asked. "I'm afraid I can't remember much of anything, other than fragments of an odd dream where I was trapped in beneath the ice in a frozen lake or something."
"Well," the spectre started, "as I said before, I found you lacking in coherence during breakfast and fetched Madam Pomfrey from the hospital wing. She was...displeased with your condition---you can expect a lecture on that the next time you see her."
Rosaline frowned, sinking a little deeper into the pillows. "How lovely."
The Grey Lady continued, "She had run out of Salveoserum, and so she sent me to have Professor Snape bring some up, as he usually has a few healing potions on-hand in case of emergencies."
Roseline's frown intensified. "Snape was here?" she worriedly enquired, one hand twisting itself in the dark blue sheets. The phantom nodded, her expression turning somewhat bitter.
"Unenthusiastically, though it did take him awhile to return once he had gone. You would have to ask Madam Pomfrey what took him so long, as I was watching over his class at the time."
"It figures," Rosaline groused. "He was probably trying to stay as long as possible in the hopes that his presence would make me feel worse. Either that or he had to go and wash himself after being near me."
"Rosaline!" the Grey Lady chided her, holding in a chuckle, but Rosaline wasn't paying attention. The topic of the Potions master had given her blank, wistful stare that told the ghost she was a million miles away. "Are the curtains of great interest to you?"
"Hm? Oh. Yes. They're quite...blue."
A wry smirk tinged the corners of the phantom's mouth. "All right, out with it," she ordered, folding her hands in her lap. "What's on your mind?"
The young woman sighed at length and slid down the pillows so that she was stretched out on her back and fidgeted with her hands like a distracted child, linking her thumbs and forefingers in an Itsy Bitsy Spider dance. "That dream," she finally admitted. "I don't know why I keep thinking about it. The memory of it is very vague and fuzzy. And---ugh!---Lockhart? I can't believe the headmaster is allowing him to taint my beautiful history! Oh," she groaned, grabbing a random pillow and pretending to smother herself with it so that her voice was muffled, "my students are going to hate me. Lockhart. Ye gods."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about them if I were you," the Grey Lady consoled her. "They'll most likely be so happy when you return that they'll forget to be cross with you."
Rosaline threw the pillow aside and looked hopefully up at the spectre. "You really think so?"
"I do. Of course, if by some mind-boggling chance I'm incorrect, you can always make it up to them. I hear that butterbeer doubles as a sedative these days. Give one to an impatient child and their whining clears up quick as a Snidget."
"That's all well and good, but I highly doubt I have the funds to buy a thousand-odd students each a butterbeer, no matter how desperate and delusional I may be."
"Well...you're a Ravenclaw; I'm sure you'll think of something."
"You're very optimistic for a ghost, you know."
"Most people consider death to be the lowest one can go. If one is already dead, what way is there to go but up?"
"Point taken," Rosaline murmured as she closed her eyes to sift through her thoughts. Secretly, she was glad for the Grey Lady's persistence in her staying in bed to recuperate. Her earlier burst of adrenaline upon her realisation that she had missed more than a day's lessons had worn off, and she was surprised to find that, despite her many hours' rest, she was still quite tired and drained, and for some strange reason, her knuckles ached, as though she had bruised them.
"Lady Jane?"
"Yes?"
"What do you know of dreams?"
She heard the ghost sigh and, after a few thoughtful moments, speak. "I know I haven't dreamt in over four and a half centuries."
Rosaline rolled onto her side to face the phantom, but did not open her eyes. "Do you believe they can...transcend, so to speak, into the waking world?"
"I can't think of a reason why they couldn't. Dreams, consciousness, life, death...it all mingles together, stronger at certain points in time, and weaker in others. Why?"
"No reason," Rosaline shrugged, flexing one hand into a fist. "I didn't feel like myself."
"What?"
"In my dream," she said quietly. "I didn't feel like myself. But I didn't feel like I was on the outside looking in, either. It was like I was someone else, but I don't know who. Why would I dream I was someone I've never met?"
There was another wispy sigh, and Rosaline could picture the ghost's brooding, contemplative stare. "I don't know. The subconscious mind oft times works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it wasn't someone you've met, but someone you've heard of: A random identity your mind just happened to come across at the time."
"I suppose so...it just felt so familiar...why can't I shake this feeling of déjà vu? And what on Earth could Severus Snape have to do with it? It's driving me up the wall. I can't afford to go mad again, not now. Not when things are so...for lack of a better word, ideal. I have a job I enjoy, wonderful company---for the most part, at least---my privacy when I want it...of all the times, why now? What is so important about now that this is happening?"
She opened her eyes, and found the Grey Lady gazing at her with a small, somewhat melancholy smile.
"If I knew the answer to that," said the spectre, "I would never have seized the throne."
~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Well, that's chapter two. Chapter three should be out in a few days, if I don't get too distracted by writing for---gasp!---school assignments. More of Severus, Halloween, and the pace of the story picks up a bit.
And, wow, reviews. Wonderful ones, too (I'm on favourites lists! Woo and, of course, hoo!). I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as you did the first one, and that you found Snape to be in-character; he's a difficult one to write.
Atheis and Aeris Gainsborough: Thank you I do. :)
kaptainsnot: Thank you much. I'm glad you find Rosaline to be a relatable character---she actually has a lot of myself in her (history nut, a perpetually nervous stomach, etc.). I'm flattered by your compliments, and I do hope this story continues to maintain your interest.
Faith Accompli: I'm in the middle of reading your Tom/Ginny story "Walking Higher;" it's fantastic thus far. Must leave you a nice long review for it when I've finished. Of course, since I'm liking your story so much, I'm thrilled you're liking mine. I'm glad you don't think Rosaline an annoying-as-fuck New Teacher (I was worried she might come off as grate-on-one's-nerves whiny). As for her past, there's nothing really tragic about it, no---her brain's simply wired a bit off, so that she makes molehills into mountains and vice-versa. The tragedy's all in her head.
Veruka: I'm glad Faith shoved you, too. ;) I agree---Flitwick doesn't get enough play in fics. I'm pro-Flitwick. A tiny, good-natured duelling champion-cum-Charms professor is bound to have led an interesting life.
Fidelis Haven: Oh my. I'm on the favourites list of Fidelis Haven. Holy crap. Again with the being thrilled, both that you like and that you don't want to grind my new character into meatloaf (because that would be...bad). Binns really does need to kick it, in a never-coming-back sort of way. If he can die and not notice, I'm sure he'd be just as oblivious to an exorcism (possibly even one he requests himself).
Tessie: Writing quickly as I can without sacrificing grammar, spelling and the like. Hope you found this part just as interesting.
Dahlia: Ta. :) Happy to know Snape bastardry is coming through---he just wouldn't be Snape if he wasn't a sarcastic, cynical git. Huge part of his appeal, that.
Salveoserum I made up (obviously), from the Latin salveo, meaning "to be in good health." The serum part's rather obvious.