The loud, persistent ringing that echoed throughout Rosaline's rooms ended with an abrupt crash as she smacked her alarm clock off her bedside table and to the floor. The clatter it made woke her more than the ringing itself, and she entangled herself in the sheets until they held her tightly as a straightjacket, not wanting to get up.
It was six o'clock the next morning, and a Thursday, which meant she would have to attend the once-a-week staff meeting before breakfast---and which meant that she would have to face him before she was properly conscious, something which usually happened around half past eight. She toyed with the idea of telling Flitwick she was sick, but that wouldn't have been wise---she took ill often enough as it was, and she couldn't afford to waste any days off simply because she was feeling particularly antisocial.
"Come on, Ros," she mumbled groggily to herself and attempted to extricate her limbs from the sheets. "There's no point in hiding, especially from him..."
It took her a good two minutes to finally free herself of the material, tired and floundering as she was from only three hours' sleep. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, rubbing her eyes with her hands. A gloomy silver sunrise streaming through the windows reflected off the blues colouring her rooms, and she felt for a moment as though she had slept within a storm cloud. With a sigh that morphed into a yawn, she replaced the brass alarm clock back onto the bedside table before standing and making her way toward her bathroom, grabbing her flimsy grey dressing gown from where it was hanging over the back of a chair on her way.
She twisted the taps of her shower on, making the water as hot as she could stand it. Undressing, she shivered in the cold air, and then again at the sharp contrasting heat of the spray as she stepped inside her bath. For a few moments, she closed her eyes and leaned against the tiled wall, resting her head on her arms as she allowed the nearly scalding water to run over her body and through her hair at its leisure. The events of the previous night weighed heavily on her psyche and shoulders, and she again pondered seeing Dumbledore about the...affliction...she and the Potions master shared despite Snape's insistence to the contrary.
Still, something held her back. Snape would probably believe that she had told the headmaster just to spite him---Which, she mused to herself, mightn't be entirely untrue. But she didn't know how the Slytherin would react, or how detrimental to their problem that reaction might be. And even if she did tell Dumbledore, what was there to be done about it? She highly doubted an exorcism would vanquish two spirits embedded into the very foundation of Hogwarts itself. They were too powerful, too anguished to be so easily quelled. What was there to do but wait out whatever closure they needed to realise?
Leave.
The thought entered unbidden into her mind, and she opened her eyes.
"No," she answered it aloud, then reached for the shampoo bottle and began washing her hair vigorously, as if she could scrub the notion off her head.
Leave, the voice repeated as the water rushed past her ears, blocking out all external sounds. It's this place. You know it's this place. Leave the castle, and leave Slytherin and Ravenclaw to their own devices. Do not play pawn to their scorned lovers' games.
"I will not leave. My life is finally going somewhere; I'm not going to ruin it just because of some..." she trailed off, searching for words that could possibly trivialise what was happening, and finding none.
Your life? If this continues, how much of your life do you believe you will still be able to lay claim to? How far are you prepared to let this go?
How far...she hadn't thought of that.
No, you hadn't, had you? the voice mockingly sneered. They were lovers, Rosaline, passionate lovers who were not always kind. You don't honestly believe they stopped at mere kisses and a clothed embrace, do you?
No, she didn't, and in the throes of possession, both she and Snape were somewhat lacking in control.
Random moments of spite, random moments of adoration...how long do you think it will be before you and he are swept up in a moment of lovemaking over which neither of you have any restraint? Or worse---what if only one of you is possessed at the time? It's happened before. I wonder, would it still be considered rape then?
"It will not go that far," she said resolutely. "I wouldn't allow it to, and neither would he---we'd hex each other into a coma before whichever one of us was possessed could lift so much as a hem."
He's hurt you before, you know, and he's threatened to do it again.
"That was different. He was angry---"
And what? He'll never be angry with you again? Come to your senses, you daft girl; he is angry every time he lays eyes on you. He blames you for what's happening.
"He is not a monster. Dumbledore never would have employed him if he believed Snape was capable of something like that."
But it wouldn't be Snape if such a thing were to happen, would it? It would be dear Slytherin himself. Enemies of the Heir, beware. It gives one cause to wonder precisely how long Salazar considered Rowena a traitor. Perhaps he believed her to be his enemy until his dying day.
It clicked in her head then, and she wondered how she hadn't seen it before. "The Chamber..." she murmured, the soapy washrag she held in her hand slipping from her fingers and landing with a light splash in the bath. "Oh, gods...it wasn't a prank. It's real. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. That's why this is happening. It's released...it's awakened them."
Good girl. Have a biscuit.
Rosaline did not respond, and the voice slid quietly back into the depths of her unconscious. The Chamber of Secrets was real---not only real, but open. Was this the monster legend spoke of, these spirits? But that didn't make any sense...how were these possessions meant to weed out the Muggle-borns? These were the replayed acts of a forsaken love, not some wicked promise of blood yet to be shed. Whatever crimes to be committed under their influence were ones of passion, not of prejudice. But if the presence inhabiting Snape's body was that of Salazar himself...what if he was the Heir, not in blood, but in spirit? What if the monster entombed within the school was the phantom manifestation of Slytherin, engrained within the very walls of the castle itself and waiting for the appropriate time or person to come along to reveal itself?
But Snape had been teaching at Hogwarts for quite some time now. What was so special about this time that these spirits finally stirred?
And what of Ravenclaw? Certainly she would not have placed her essence into the Chamber as well...would she?
It was unlikely that she had even known about the Chamber's existence. If she had, with her beliefs so strongly opposed to its rumoured purpose, she would have probably sealed it in Slytherin's absence. Unless...unless his leaving had a maddening effect on her. Unless she was very aware that he had placed a part of himself within it, and keeping it accessible, putting a part of herself into it as well, had been her one last desperate effort to seek out and mend the love that had abandoned her, and whom she had abandoned in turn. What if, what if, what if...
Rosaline's head spun with theories as she quickly rinsed off, then turned off the taps and stepped out of the bath, shrugging into her dressing gown as she went. She grabbed her wand from the drawer of her bedside table and dried her hair with a short incantation, only in retrospect deciding that it would have been preferable---and less painful---if she had first combed through it and rid it of knots.
"Too late now," she muttered to herself as she forcefully pulled her brush through the snarls, wincing with every tug. When she had finished, she hurriedly twisted the strands up into her usual chignon, the few pieces near her nape that she could never seem to gather up with the rest of her hair falling down to the small of her back. Her arms ached by the time she had accomplished her task---her hair really was becoming too long for comfort. She had meant to cut it ages ago, but procrastination had once again gotten the better of her and she had never gotten around to it.
She was half dressed when the thought occurred to her that she had no reason to act so rushed, and she paused in lacing up the white corset she wore beneath her robes. Why did she feel so impatient? Even if one or more of her theories turned out to be relevant, who could she explain them to? Not Dumbledore. Snape? Would he even hear her out before shunning her? She couldn't very well stalk him throughout the day and force him to listen to her as she had done the previous night.
The voice's words floated back to her---"He's hurt you...he blames you for what's happening."---and her stomach tightened. She didn't want to speak with him. Truth be told, she didn't want to have to go near him ever again, though the chances of that wish being granted were about as probable as a dragon balancing itself on the point of a needle.
Her tenacity rapidly dissipating, she sank down onto her bed, trying to decide what, if any, action she should take.
It's a secret, is it not? hissed the voice, which had surreptitiously slipped back into her mind amidst the din of distraction and confusion that was crowding it. You're good at keeping secrets. Do you remember the last one you kept?
Rosaline lowered her gaze to stare down at the ugly white scars marring the skin of her upturned wrists.
"...I don't like secrets," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
But you had no other choice than to keep your silence, did you? They would have thought you mad. Though perhaps that's what madness is: Feeling things you were never meant to have felt---at least, not to the excess that you did. Of course, there really was no point to holding your tongue as long as you did. Those pretty pale lines spoke for you. They thought you mad and locked you up.
"But I healed," she said, closing her fingers into loose fists.
Did you, Rosaline? Did you really? Do you think such a stigma can simply fade with time, like those scars of yours? They thought you mad, Rosaline, and allow me to let you in on a little secret... the voice quieted, warping into the same rasping hiss that had taunted her not a day before, ...they still do.
"No," she shook her head and stood to finish lacing her corset, pulling the ribbons tightly through the eyelets, as if she could suffocate the foreboding thoughts away. "No."
Tell yourself what you will. But remember, Rosaline...truth is not sculpted from delusion, and scars are merely patterns for future wounds to follow.
She tied on her boots hastily and grabbed her robes on her way out the door, pulling them on as she headed down to the staffroom.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Are you feeling okay, my dear? You're looking a bit pale."
Rosaline met Flitwick's concerned eyes and forced a weak smile. "I'm always pale---and yes, I'm fine," she lied, her stomach twisting further at the deception. She really hated to mislead her former head of house; he had never been anything but kind to her, and probably deserved her trust more than anyone, except perhaps for the Grey Lady, who was at present hovering near the fireplace, engaged in a conversation with Sir Nicholas. The house ghosts were usually in attendance of the staff meetings, as they were something of unofficial mentors to some of the students and liked to keep up on the school's affairs, but now Rosaline was loathing their company, as it only reminded her of that which she was trying to escape. Another tiny betrayal. She wondered if Ravenclaw's possession of her had anything to do with her guilt over the little white lies.
She automatically scanned the room for Snape, and found him sitting quietly in one of the chairs occupying the corner furthest away from the spectres. Perhaps their presence was disquieting to him as well. The notion might have made her feel slightly better, if she hadn't been sure that her own presence was more of a disturbance to him than the comfort normally obtained between two people with shared grievances. She looked away before he could notice her staring.
Conversations buzzed like a swarm of flies around her as the last of the faculty trickled through the door, and their wings only stopped beating when Dumbledore rose to address his professors, but even his voice sounded like a blur of sound against her ears. She half listened to the senseless words, her eyes fixated on a random flaw in the stone floor, glancing up only when a cloud of puce fabric swirled theatrically to her right. Gilderoy Lockhart enthusiastically updated the apathetic group on the state of his Duelling Club, and a few faces turned to Snape in surprise when it was announced that he had agreed to assist Lockhart in the first demonstration. The Potions master only looked murderously on the ridiculous spectacle that was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and lightly drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair, and whatever shock contorted the faces of the other teachers quickly melted away into furtive approval. When they returned their gazes to Lockhart, there was a new eagerness to their stares, and more than a couple of anticipating smirks.
"Do stop by," the golden-haired man prattled on, mistaking their smiles to mean that they were genuinely interested in what he had to say. "I'm sure you all would hate to miss the chance to see your own Lightning Lockhart in action! That's a nickname I picked up in Germany---if you've read Gadding with Ghouls you'll remember---"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore interrupted, an indulgent smile on his weathered face, "that will be all. Is there anything else anyone would like to add before we adjourn for breakfast?"
Rosaline raised her gaze to the headmaster's, then thought twice about speaking and looked covertly over at Snape. He had her fixed with a dangerous, forbidding stare, and she swallowed down what words might have lingered on her tongue.
"Rosaline?" Dumbledore enquired. "Is there something you wanted to say?"
The History of Magic professor shook her head. "No, Headmaster, there's nothing," she replied, willing her voice into a tone of nonchalance. Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at her for a second, then turned jovially back to the rest of the group.
"Then I propose we answer to the rumblings in our stomachs and commence to the Great Hall."
The faculty and phantoms slowly filed out of the room, the fly-like buzz of conversation immediately picking up where it had left off. Only Snape remained in his seat, his fingers steepled pensively in front of his face. Rosaline caught his eyes once before she, too, sauntered out of the room, and inwardly he was mildly surprised that she had not leapt at the chance to speak to him alone. Then again, she had seemed rather unfocused and morose throughout the symposium. He couldn't decide whether or not the sudden change in her demeanour pleased him. She had respected his request for silence, and for that much he was...not thankful, but a trifle satisfied.
He had dreamt last night that he had been floating above thin ice, with a constant vexation that the air might lose its hold on him and he would fall, and crash through the surface into the freezing water with the shadowy corpse that lurked just beneath. His toe had grazed the brittle, diamond-like shell with a soft hiss just before he woke. He wasn't sure what to make of it---of course, he rarely tried to make sense of his cluttered, chequered subconscious when it was as unbound as it was in dreams. That, and his mind was already hazy with trying to make sense of the revelations that had passed in front of his face and quite literally through him within the last twenty-four hours.
So You're Being Possessed By the Spirit of a Hogwarts Founder was not likely to be hidden in the library stacks, even in the ever-coveted Restricted Section. There was certainly nothing on the illustrious originator of Slytherin House's tempestuous love affair with the supposedly level-headed creator of Ravenclaw House in any of the history texts Severus had read, and yet the proof of it was seemingly undisputable.
For the hundredth time, he ran every fact he knew of the situation through his head.
One: The possessions did not occur randomly---yet---but precisely at or near midnight, near the witching hour. This was logical; all magic was at its most potent during this time. The possessions did, however, seem to encompass random moments in the lives of the bereaved; times of simple adoration, times of betrayal, hate, desperation; there was no continuity that he could discern.
Two: Rosaline had been affected first. This, too, seemed logical---she was a far more open soul than he, and was thus more vulnerable to having it become swept away by a force stronger than she was.
Three: Residual emotions that clung to his skin like a sticky film. Nowhere near as strong as the ones that crashed over them during the possessions, not even close, but he could not deny that her presence had an affect on him, and the fact that it was slightly positive only made his true feelings toward her that much more negative. The residual was perhaps worse than the concerted. It was like the jeers of a taunting child who adamantly refused to cease its irritation, always stabbing lightly at the surface of his thoughts. Had he been allowed to feel nothing at all for this woman in between the sudden spikes of intense emotion, the situation would have been easier to swallow. As it was, he felt as though he were being unravelled one thread at a time, never truly had control over himself. It was a slow, unrelenting torment, and he despised it. He despised her, if just for being the object of his restlessness, no matter if she was or was not to blame for it.
Love is a very human emotion, and Snape had never considered himself human enough to be susceptible to it.
But then, it's not you who is feeling it, is it? Not really.
He couldn't dispute the thought, and the realisation of Slytherin's own humanity felt strange to him. Severus' house had spent over a millennia cultivating a reputation of ruthlessness, supposedly based on its founder's own lack of scruples. But when it came right down to it, and the lines were drawn in the sand, Hogwarts' four initiators, no matter how powerful and great they had been, were only human. Nothing more than a handful of people with a vision and the means to carry it out. The vision is what made them the god-like creatures they were considered today---to sculpt and mould the future of their race---but not the means. In the reality of their time, they were not the invincible lords and ladies history had fashioned them to be, though they may have left behind a few...divine indications to the contrary.
Four: The Chamber of Secrets. As Head of Slytherin House, Snape was privy to certain facts regarding the dungeons that sheltered his precious serpents---past events, both good and bad that had the potential to resurface in the present (it would figure that the solitary resurfacing event that affected him most would have absolutely no documentation or rumour by which to warn him of what to expect, and why). The Chamber, he knew, was very real indeed, and not merely the product of a cautionary tale that had spanned enough centuries to be labelled as a myth. It had been opened once before, in 1942, by a person unknown---for even without Dumbledore's encouragement, Snape had no trouble believing that there was no way in Heaven or on Earth that the former Gryffindor Rubeus Hagrid was Salazar Slytherin's heir.
The attacks on the students had stopped abruptly following the only death, that of a young Hufflepuff Mudblood whose own ghost now inhabited the second floor girls' bathroom. The details surrounding Hagrid's expulsion from Hogwarts had not been disclosed to Severus, but there had never been mention of spirits of any identity infecting anyone, which meant one of two things: Either it had occurred before, and the two possessed individuals had kept their mouths shut, as he and Rosaline were doing, or it had never happened at all, which seemed to indicate that the reopening of the Chamber had little to do with his and the History of Magic professor's situation. That Rosaline's first two possessions happened seemingly before it had been opened was not lost on him, nor was it conclusive that the Chamber of Secrets truly was open again at all, though the Petrification of Mrs. Norris appeared to solidify that fact. Snape couldn't help but feel as though the writing on the wall was somehow related to what was happening between himself and Rosaline. It had been there, after all, that they had first experienced a shared possession.
The unknown variable of the "who or what" had been pushed aside, and now it was the "why and how" that took its place. Why them? Why now? If the Chamber was open, how? It was doubtless that Slytherin's heir would be in Slytherin House itself, but if the Heir had opened the Chamber fifty years previous, how was he managing to reopen it now? Was there more than one Heir? The Heir of the Heir, who inherited the abilities of his father to unleash the beast contained within the school and finish what his father had started half a century ago? And how were the spirits of Slytherin and Ravenclaw---that she would be invoked as well splayed open a thousand other possibilities---meant to serve this purpose? A love betrayed wasn't exactly conducive to the purging of filthy blood within a learning institution, unless its presence was merely to stoke the flames of hatred already beginning to ignite from the glowing embers of prejudice throughout the school.
Leaning forward, Severus pressed his fingertips to his temples. His mind was twisting itself into the mental equivalent of a Celtic knot cut into bits and pieces, the logic that should have entwined the instances together lost on him, leading him only to more questions he could not find the answers to. He felt like a blind man in a cave, searching for a candle that was lit over one thousand years ago, and with good reason.
One cannot understand what one does not embrace. It was akin to expecting knowledge by simply holding a book, but never reading it. He did not want this, did not want to embrace it, and did not want to embrace her in order to fathom it. The awareness he was grasping for was woven into a burning tapestry, like having to reach into a cauldron of acid in order to extract a healing bezoar from its belly. If he did not acquire it, he felt as though he might go mad; if he attempted to attain it, then he was putting his sanity at risk for that same descent.
You're damned if you do, and damned if you don't.
But if that was the case, then he would not. If he was damned either way, he would not pursue this any further than it dictated him to. He was no stranger to accepting responsibility for his actions, and if madness and condemnation were what awaited him, then he would succumb to them by his own hand, and not by hers.
The memory of the previous night's possession floated languorously behind his eyes, held at the surface of his thoughts: "...it may be my knife, Salazar, but if it is in your back then it is there by your own hand. If you feel you have been slain, then it has been by your own arrogance, and not by me."
Severus smiled faintly, grimly. "Perhaps Lady Ravenclaw was something of a latent prophetess..." he mused aloud, then sat back and ran both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face. It was then he noticed that he was not the only person in the room as he had thought---the Grey Lady hovered near the door, and was watching him with an intent expression on her face. He arched an eyebrow at her. "Yes?" he demanded, his voice filled with annoyance at having been snuck up on by yet another ghost.
"I was only wondering about your sudden interest in Ravenclaws, Professor Snape," the spectre answered him softly, more than a hint of suspicion in her silvered eyes.
"Mind your own business," he snapped, rising to leave. She stopped him with an icy hand on his shoulder that froze him in his tracks.
"Ravenclaw House is my business, Professor. And as both a Ravenclaw and my friend, so is Professor Rosebridge."
Severus glared at the ghost and was silent for a moment, contemplating how best to respond without giving her the upper hand in a conversation he was certain would quickly end up an argument. "What does she have to do with anything?" he finally decided on, the third word all but spat out in contempt.
"Don't play me for a fool, Professor. Something is going on between the two of you. She's been distant these last few days, but I've been watching her, and from the looks she has when her eyes come to rest on you, then it must be you who is the cause of her vexation."
"Need I point out, milady," said Severus, "that many people are vexed by me. I don't see your hackles raising over the state of Neville Longbottom's trousers after a Potions class; why should Professor Rosebridge be any different?"
"Mr. Longbottom is in Gryffindor. He is not my concern and the Sorting Hat obviously believed him capable of handling himself."
"And you don't believe Professor Rosebridge can handle herself, is that it? My, my. With her friends so confident in her ability to take care of herself, it's no wonder the girl is always so skittish."
"I only worry for her well being because of all she has been through," the Grey Lady maintained, keeping her voice controlled and quiet. Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure the poor thing has been through hell and back," he mockingly sneered, and the ghost's scowl intensified.
"She has---and unlike some people, she was not so weak as to willingly join her demons," she hissed, rising a few inches into the air to look down her nose scathingly at the Potions master, who was by now looking equally malicious.
"I'd consult the scars on her wrists before making such a claim if I were you."
The phantom looked momentarily taken aback---clearly, she had not been as perceptive about the History of Magic professor's former liaisons with darkness as he had. But then, few people were as perceptive as he was to begin with.
With a nasty smirk of satisfaction, Severus walked through her without a word, his jaw clenching at the familiar feeling of ice sliding over his skin to be absorbed into his bones, and left the Grey Lady to her stunned silence.
~*~*~*~*~*~
On Saturday, try as he might, Filius Flitwick could not extract the History of Magic professor from her rooms. The first Quidditch match of the season was scheduled for the day, but she had made it clear she did not wish to attend, claiming she hadn't slept on Thursday night from having procrastinated about marking three classes' worth of essays that had needed to be handed back on Friday. He would have suggested that a little sunlight might help her to perk up some, but even the heavens were working against him; ominous charcoal clouds had cloaked the sun in a death shroud by mid-morning.
He was worried about her, and knew that her excuse wasn't entirely truthful. She had been listless for over a week now. His paternal instincts combined with the general sense of curiosity that was characteristic of Ravenclaw House told him to sit down and have it out with her until she finally admitted what was bothering her, but he pushed them aside. She was an adult now, no longer one of his students, and it was not his place to intrude on her personal affairs.
He was almost anticipating the day when her diet of tea and toast---which appeared to be all she ever ate anymore---would finally catch up with her health. He did not wish to see her ill, but a day or so confined to the hospital wing would give him reason enough to pry. If whatever was going on in her private life affected her ability to successfully teach her classes, then it was technically his right, in a professional sense, to know what was going on with her.
Even the infectious Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match could not distract his mind once his focus was set on other matters. Seated next to him in the stands, Professor Snape didn't seem to be paying any attention to the game, and Filius had a feeling that, had Slytherin not been playing and their head of house was thus not obligated to attend the match, he wouldn't have been there. Snape didn't so much as blink when Chaser Marcus Flint hurled the Quaffle past Gryffindor's Keeper, Oliver Wood, for the third time, raising Slytherin's score by another ten points so that they now led the match fifty to zero. Flitwick narrowed his eyes---that wasn't like the Potions master at all. In his school days, Snape himself had been a Chaser for Slytherin House, and normally took quite an interest in the sport. While he could never be found cheering his charges on, he followed their matches with a hawk-like gaze that never missed a move. Something would have to be troubling him deeply to draw his concentration so far away from the match. Come to think of it, his overall demeanour had seemed rather distracted for the last week or so as well.
Filius was not close to the Slytherin, but there was a level of respect between the two of them that came with their head of house titles and their shared attraction to the sport of duelling. Usually they interacted cordially, certainly more politely and amicably than Snape's relationships with some of the other teachers, but now the Charms professor felt a tinge of unease prickle at the back of his neck. He pushed it away---there, his own emotions explained the coincidence. The whole of the faculty had been tense since Halloween night, and there was no more reason to connect Snape's agitation to Rosaline's dreary mood anymore than there was to connect his own restlessness to it. The Potions master was singled out often enough in such matters by both students and teachers alike, even if the latter were more clandestine in their displays of wariness; he didn't need Filius to unfairly add to that.
The writing on the wall proclaiming the opening of the Chamber of Secrets had everyone on edge, and though the majority of the staff were trying to convince themselves and the students that it had been nothing more than an austere and mean-spirited prank, no one could relax completely. Filius himself had not been present at Hogwarts during the original unlocking of the Chamber; he had been pushing forty at the time, and his career as a duelling champion had been winding down as fresh blood had arrived on the scene, young men and women itching to prove their worth through the art. He had first heard of the phenomenon through those young mouths, and like the rest, he had been dubious of the authenticity of their assertions. All that had changed but a few years later, when he had come to the school to teach after Dumbledore's defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald. Dumbledore, then serving as Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor with a young Minerva McGonagall as his assistant, had been the only member of the faculty who had not immediately gone silent when Filius mentioned the Chamber to him. "Oh, it does exist, I assure you," the century-old wizard had maintained. "But if it is ever to be opened again, it will not happen anytime in the near future."
Now, Filius almost smiled to himself---the future, it seemed, was always closer than one anticipated. Dumbledore had yet to say whether or not he believed the Chamber to be open once more, and when the wise headmaster was uncertain, it never failed to translate into an unspoken acknowledgement that yes, their fears were being realised. Yes, the Chamber of Secrets was open again. But what there was to be done about it...
It began to rain in large, fat drops. Filius pulled the hood of his deep violet cloak over his head.
It was not a comforting thought that there was nothing else for it but to sit and wait it all out. The heir would have graduated some fifty years ago, and now there was no way of knowing how or by whom Slytherin's morbid legacy had been drawn ajar, let alone where. No one but the heir had ever been able to decipher that particular secret. No one but the heir possessed the figurative key. The castle had been scoured for the infamous hall countless times by those who had become obsessed with its legend, and to no avail, if one did not count the discovery of Ravenclaw's private library, Hufflepuff's underground gardens and Gryffindor's personal armoury (the sword from which was now proudly displayed in the headmaster's office). The Chamber remained as cloaked in mystery as ever, an enigma that begged to be solved with more and more urgency with each passing day.
The animosity between the houses, Gryffindor and Slytherin especially, had already begun to amplify. Even Filius' own Ravenclaws, who were usually tolerant and even at times friendly with the snake house, were beginning to send scathing glares the Slytherins' way, the pureblood students included. It was out of character for them to behave so malevolently, and because of what was currently a rather weak trigger. Their fiercely analytical minds naturally dispelled most rumours until proof of their truth was given. That the writing on the wall was merely some foolish prank was still a possibility, albeit a scant one, and customarily they would have clung to that until irrefutable evidence had been unearthed. Their reaction to the Chamber was, to say the least, out of the ordinary.
But then, nothing felt ordinary at the moment.
With a heavy sigh, Filius turned to the Potions master. Idle chit-chat was not one of Snape's favourite past-times, but the Charms professor overlooked the fact, feeling that any distraction from the anxious atmosphere (helped in no way by the rain, which was now coming down in torrents) was both welcome and needed.
Out on the pitch, Balthazar Montague scored another goal, nudging the Slytherin team's lead up another ten points. The score now stood sixty to zero.
"Those new broomsticks seem to be all but paying for themselves, eh?" he commented in what he hoped was a light tone of voice. Snape glanced at him out of the corner his eye for a moment, then grunted an unintelligible response. Not giving up just yet, Filius tried again, this time taking notice of the Seekers, who had yet to attempt a capture of the Golden Snitch. "Oh dear. Young Potter's not faring too well against that Bludger, is he?"
Indeed, Harry Potter seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble with one of the black balls, which appeared to be targeting him specifically. Every time he dodged it, it would swing back around to try and hit him again. That can't be right... Filius thought to himself, forgetting his attempts at conversation with Snape (whose scowl only deepened at the mention of the second-year Gryffindor's name and would probably be a horrid raconteur at the moment anyway). If it was distraction he craved, he got it---after two more tries, the Bludger finally made contact with Potter's arm, nearly knocking the boy off his broom. The crowd released a collective gasp as Potter clung dazedly to his Nimbus Two Thousand by his right leg alone. A few of the Slytherin students in the stands had begun to chant "Fall! Fall! Fall!"
The boy disappointed them as the Bludger returned for a second assault, this one aimed at his face. He struggled to right himself, then bolted at top speed for the opposing team's Seeker. Draco Malfoy swerved out of the way in alarm, and at Potter's outstretched hand, Filius knew what the boy had been doing.
Another cry rose up from the onlookers as Potter sagged over his broomstick and began to plummet the fifteen-foot distance to the ground. He hit the mud and rolled, his right arm bent at a very awkward angle, and the hand of his left clutching the Snitch. A triumphant howl burst from three-quarters of the stands, and Filius found himself enthusiastically contributing to the raucous applause echoing throughout the pitch.
"Well done!" he called out, and then remember he was seated right next to the Head of Slytherin House. He turned to see Snape's reaction to his house's loss---but the Potions master had already risen and was exiting the drenched stands, looking not so much livid as mildly annoyed, and the Charms professor knew that Quidditch was one of the furthest things from the dark man's mind. His mind flashed once more to Rosaline's recent spiral into the morose, the tinge of suspicion again spiking his emotions.
Filius forced the feeling away for the second time, and returned his gaze to the Quidditch pitch, where Gilderoy Lockhart was kneeling over the now unconscious Harry Potter and brandishing his wand ("Yes, it's very nice, isn't it? Ash and one unicorn tail hair, ten and one-half inches!"). He shook his head forlornly---this could not end in victory---and wondered if Madam Pomfrey was in enough of an experimental mood to physically injure the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in order to test a few new healing potions that had yet to be cleared by the Ministry of Magic as "relatively safe for use on humans, but if you start growing moss out of your ears, don't say we didn't warn you." He doubted he would find the results of the potions---whatever they would turn out to be---unpleasant.
Unless, of course, they worked.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The night hung like a dark curtain over the Scottish countryside, its velvet fingers slipping between the seams of the windows and into the castle, iridescent moonlight reflecting off the shadows in sharp silver threads. The stone floor was cold beneath Rosaline's bare feet as she padded through the halls. She shivered and pulled her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders, it and her sheer white nightdress her only protection against the early November chill.
Unable to sleep for the third time in as many nights, she had opted to head down to the kitchens with the hope that a hot cup of Earl Grey might sooth her enough for at least a couple hours' slumber. As she walked, she couldn't help but wonder if Rowena Ravenclaw herself had taken this same path to fulfil the same purpose during her own tenure at the school.
Or perhaps to meet Salazar in the dungeons for a midnight rendezvous.
She shook the thought from her head, and turned left after stepping off of the third floor staircase. This was a longer way down to the kitchens, but further from the entrance to the dungeons. Rosaline did not feel like risking an encounter with the Potions master tonight, though she knew in the back of her mind that which direction she chose to take had nothing to do with whether or not they would meet if that is what the spirits wished.
She glanced at a grandfather clock standing regally next to a suit of armour that raised the face of its helmet in a greeting as she passed---only five minutes until twelve. Five minutes until she was safe from succumbing to the whims of Ravenclaw, for tonight at least. She sped up her pace.
A sudden wave of cold air washed over her, followed by an ethereal hiss, and Rosaline's heart skipped a beat until she remembered that this section of the castle was always more draughty than the others.
"Get a bloody grip, would you?" she muttered to herself. "It's only the wind..."
Vaguely, she remembered that some cultures considered wind to be a portent of wicked things to come. The notion did not help her state of mind, and she pushed it away with the majority of her other thoughts, limiting herself to an internal mantra of Tea...tea...tea...tea...
Her feet had by now gone from cold to numb. The windows released another menacing hiss, this one sounding almost as though it were closer than the last. A rush of adrenaline borne from dread surged through her, causing gooseflesh to raise on her skin with an uncomfortable tingle. This is what the prey feels like right before the predator strikes.
She could feel an almost palpable burn between her shoulder blades, the sort of sensation that accompanies the feeling of being held captive under a particularly intense stare. Her thoughts shifted fleetingly to Snape and the way his eyes could almost pierce flesh with their gaze if he only looked hard enough at a person, and then her mind left her completely in favour of panic. Preferring flight to fight and not daring to turn around, her swift walk turned into a much swifter run. The corridor around her turned into a blur, blued with the night. Something was creeping up on her, chasing her. She could practically feel its fetid breath on her neck, and a bitter taste welled in the back of her throat that whatever it was it was going to overtake her at any moment---
---but it didn't. She could still feel its presence behind her, almost...almost deliberately keeping itself just beyond reach of her.
Rosaline didn't care. She kept running, and did not stop until she had bolted through the door at the end of the hall and slammed it shut behind her. There was a soft, almost grating sound just beyond the protective oak barrier between she and it, like something was being dragged across the stone floor, and then, there was silence, broken only by her harsh, quick breaths and the pounding rush of her blood in her ears.
A nearby clock struck midnight with a loud, echoing gong, and Rosaline jumped, a startled gasp escaping her lips. It wasn't until the eighth chime that she managed to somewhat calm herself, one hand clasped tightly around the collar of her dressing gown, the other pressed against her stomach.
Gods above---what was that? It was like a...
Like a what?
Like nothing she had ever felt before.
Slowly, shakily, she disentangled her fingers that had been gripping the collar of her dressing gown and reached back to feel the nape of her neck, the only part of her body that was not cold with fright---quite the opposite. The skin there was warm, too warm. Whatever that...thing...had been, its breath burned, not like fire so much as like steam, and it had decidedly not felt human.
A side effect of the possessions? she wondered. Or perhaps something completely different altogether...
As her heart and breath quieted, and her skin cooled further, the rational part of her brain began to return. Doubt slipped taciturnly in beside it, and nestled itself firmly within the analytical workings of her mind.
Or perhaps it was nothing more than your imagination getting the better of you. Your thoughts are already tainted with the transcendental goings on that have beset your nights, and your daylight ruminations. Perhaps you were simply running like a madwoman for no apparent reason. Oh, pardon---there was a reason for it in that you are a madwoman. That justifies your actions nicely.
She would have replied, had a new sound not met her ears, this one unmistakeable---a woman's voice, speaking softly at first and then rising shrilly as if terrified. Rosaline's eyes darted around, scanning her surroundings, lingering on shifty-looking shadows. With bated breath, she crept silently nearer to the banister to glance down at the floors below, careful to keep herself concealed and out of the moonlight streaming through the high, arching windows engrained within the walls on either side of the massive open room.
A second voice joined the first one, this one lower and more masculine, as Rosaline's hands closed tightly around the balustrade, and she leaned cautiously forward. There, two staircases below, the headmaster and deputy headmistress were conversing in whispered, urgent tones on either side of what appeared to be a short statue. They were speaking too quietly for her to make out what they were saying, but judging from McGonagall's frantic state and Dumbledore's own furrowed brow (not to mention the fact that Rosaline was certain there were no statues inhabiting any of the staircases in Hogwarts), there was something about the situation that was obviously cause for alarm.
She watched as Dumbledore eased the statue down to a forty-five degree angle, and McGonagall lifted up the other end. A pale ray of moonlight was cast over the statue's face, illuminating it for a moment before the two educators began to gently carry it up the steps. Rosaline's mouth parted in a silent "O" of surprise as she recognised the face---it did not belong to any statue; it was one of her students, a first-year Gryffindor boy called Colin Creevey. She'd know that camera anywhere with as often as he had it brandished and ready to click away at anything that struck his fancy---which happened to be most of the school and its denizens.
He'd been Petrified, just as Filch's cat had been. The Chamber...
Rosaline hesitated for a moment, not wanting to make her presence known, but definitely not wanting to try to return to her rooms after her near confrontation with the mysterious creature in the corridor behind her, either, Creevey's Petrified state convincing her that it had not merely been her overactive imagination that had been chasing her.
Wordlessly, Rosaline followed her two superiors at a distance, keeping to the shadows. The hospital wing was only one floor down from where she had been standing, and it was quickly evident that that was where young Creevey was being taken. She waited at the end of the hall as Dumbledore backed into the infirmary, followed a second later by McGonagall. Rosaline traced their steps, stopping just outside the doors to listen to the hushed voices within.
"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," came McGonagall's voice. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."
"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey.
"Yes," the deputy headmistress answered. "But I shudder to think...If Albus hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate---who knows what might have---"
Rosaline swallowed with some difficulty, and wondered if Dumbledore had heard anything like the horrible slithering sounds that had followed her in the third floor corridor.
"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" McGonagall spoke again. Neither Pomfrey nor Dumbledore responded, and Rosaline frowned and pressed her ear to the door to listen in more closely. There was a low hissing sound, and then Pomfrey's startled voice rang out.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "Melted. All melted."
And then McGonagall asked the question that Rosaline had been half dreading, half needing to hear the answer to spoken aloud: "What does this mean, Albus?"
"It means," said Dumbledore, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."
Rosaline's blood froze, and her heartbeat quickened. There was a short, stunned silence from within the hospital wing.
"But, Albus..." McGonagall murmured, "surely...who?"
"The question is not who," Dumbledore said grimly. "The question is, how..."
The History of Magic professor's head snapped up at the headmaster's words. What did the old wizard mean by that? Did he know who was responsible for the attacks? Or was he simply generalising---the Chamber of Secrets was open, and who else but the Heir of Slytherin could have ensured that? Did he know what was going on, and if he did, how much did he know that he was not letting on?
The urge to tell him of what had been happening between herself and Snape seized hold of Rosaline---if Dumbledore knew what was going on with the Chamber, he might know what was going on with the restless spirits of Slytherin and Ravenclaw, he might know how to put an end to the possessions---
---but if he knew, if anything like this had happened before, wouldn't he have been expecting it to happen again? Wouldn't he have at least warned the staff of the possibility? "The Chamber of Secrets might be open, so I want you all to keep an eye out for any Petrified animals, vegetables, and/or minerals. Oh and, by the way, two of you may become possessed by the obsessed and lovesick spirits of Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw. Have a nice day."
Perhaps that had been addressed at the staff meeting the Thursday she'd taken ill in October.
As her mood continued to darken with refuted hopes, Dumbledore's voice resonated through the door once more.
"Minerva, would you be good enough to owl Mr. Creevey's father and inform him of his son's condition as soon as possible? He would want to know."
"Certainly," McGonagall absently agreed, still sounding shocked. Rosaline could hear the Transfiguration professor's footsteps heading for the doors, and ducked into a shadow-shrouded corner at the end of the hall. McGonagall emerged from the hospital wing, looking so preoccupied she probably wouldn't have noticed if Rosaline had been standing not a foot in front of her. Once she had rounded the corner at the opposite end of the corridor, Rosaline stood and started off in the direction of the kitchens, her head swirling with questions to which she was continuously helpless to find out the answers.
~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Must acknowledge the movie Stigmata, as I snatched a line from it.
Thank you to all my nice and patient reviewers. Currently unable to get to my authorpage, so I can't respond to you all personally, but you're all much appreciated. :)