The news of Colin Creevey's Petrification had spread like wildfire, and there wasn't a soul in the school who wasn't aware of the fate that had befallen the young Gryffindor by Monday morning. The Muggle-born and halfblood students had taken to covering themselves with all sorts of mainly useless trinkets, amulets, and some just plain foul items---gods only knew where Stephen Cornfoot had got hold of a fossilised Clabbert pustule fashioned into a talisman, or why he thought it would provide him any sort of protection whatsoever. Weren't Ravenclaws supposed to be clever?
By Tuesday, the atmosphere in the castle had not improved, nor had Snape expected it to. The only relatively good things to happen was the postponement of Gilderoy Lockhart's first Duelling Club meeting and demonstration until December (as hexes and overexcited adolescents rarely mixed well together), and the blessed lack of spiritual possessions between Rosaline and himself. Though the former was a slight disappointment to Snape---he did so want to curse the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor well into the next millennia---seeing any of Lockhart's dreams crushed, no matter how small or how temporary, did bring him some satisfaction.
But there was no sneer, not even a smirk, on Severus' face as he stared down at the essays he was meant to be marking, and every so often glanced up to glare at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw fifth-years that made up his third class of the day. The dungeons had already started to chill with the impending winter, and the air in the classroom was nearly cold enough that, if one put enough effort into it, one could see their breath fog in front of them. For once, all of the students seemed to be diligently working from Magical Draughts and Potions, which meant that they were not panting at the air, which meant that they all might indeed (the Ravenclaws in particular) escape a Potions lesson without getting a single point deducted from their houses---a feat which hadn't happened in a good two years, as Roger Davies and Victor MacFarlan had a habit of playing small games of mini-Quidditch using rolled bits of paper as makeshift Quaffles, which they would attempt to toss through the circles of their thumbs and forefingers and generally cause much disruption no matter which class they happened to be in at the time. Other than the bubbling, steaming cauldrons, the soft scratching sounds of quills against parchment, and the occasional plop as a new ingredient was added into the mix, the classroom was silent.
And it was slowly driving Snape mad.
It mightn't have had such an adverse effect on his disposition had his mind not been so intolerably loud in contrast, drowning out his focus in a sea of random noise that, no matter how he tried, refused to sort itself out into isolated, sensible thoughts.
Grinding his teeth together in annoyance, he finally resigned to stand, and began scouring the rows irately for mistakes in either the students' potions or their written work. A few of them glanced up as he sauntered past, thoroughly scrutinised their success, uttered a few scathing orders or insults or both, then moved on. None of them let their gazes linger for long, though, as if they thought staring him in the eye would have the same results as staring a rabid dog in the eye---namely, a provocation silently stating that yes, they in fact did wish to have their throats torn out today.
After he had finished, Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and made his way back toward the front of the classroom, feeling a headache that would most likely last for days beginning to creep up around his eyes. Sweeping his black robes behind him, he returned to his desk and encircled an error in the essay on the top of the stack, going over the line many times simply for the sake of being obnoxious.
Dark gods, what was wrong with his brain today? It felt as badly compiled as one of Neville Longbottom's potions, and about as virulent as well. For a few moments, he merely sat like a catatonic, quill poised in his hand, staring blankly at the erroneous essay as he attempted to will the concentration back into his mind.
It worked. The abominable noise occupying his skull slowly quieted to a dull hum, like the echoing note of a piano key that had been tapped too hard.
There are many instances in which one should heed the warning, "Be careful what you wish for." For instance, if one wished for five thousand Galleons in canvas satchels, and a second later, five thousand Galleons in canvas satchels appeared, then one would naturally be pleased with the lucky development. Later on, however, after learning that, while the money appeared to come out of thin air, it had actually come out of Gringotts due to a goblin who was terrible at transportation spells but had excellent timing, the situation would obviously worsen and one may very well find themselves with a lovely view of the sea surrounding Azkaban sometime in the near future. They did get what they wished for, but unfortunately, what they wished for came with a set of severe and objectionable consequences.
Snape's objectionable consequences for wishing the noise in his head to fade---which it did---was that in his wish, he did not specify that silence was the optimal and expected result. The intolerable noise only muted itself to make room for more noise---a very different sort of noise indeed.
It began softly, so softly he scarcely paid any mind to it. Nothing more than a quiet, high-pitched hiss that grazed his ears with a feather-light touch that enabled it to blend in easily with the background buzz occupying his mind. It sounded sudden when its volume rose dramatically, waking him from his half daze with a start. His head jerked up, eyes darting around the room in alarm, but none of the students seemed to have heard it. He wondered how they could have missed it; it had been quite loud, and far too familiar for comfort.
Severus had heard many screams in his lifetime. So many that he had learned by the age of seventeen to differentiate the sorts of screams the world had to offer. Frustration and ecstasy, excitement, terror and agony---each had their own signature sound, octaves in a primal song, and the scream that echoed off the dungeon walls and into his skull was unmistakeably one composed of the latter two emotions, and unmistakeably that of a youthful voice.
There---a second scream, this one with an element of weakness, choked off and ending in a low, sickly sob, and still his students didn't seem to notice it. At fifteen, they should have at least paused in their work at the sound of someone, anyone---anything---being tortured. Severus nearly smirked; his own ears having been trained at one time to ignore such things, he wondered if he would have paid any mind to the sound had it not been present in Hogwarts' hallowed halls---his hallowed halls. There was no way that the sound was not coming from somewhere within the dungeons, and whatever was deafening his pupils to it was for some reason having no effect on him.
They're meant for you. The screams are meant for you.
His brow furrowed at the thought, and a third scream resonated through the stone corridors and into his classroom, into his head, this one preceded by a sharp crack, like the snap of a bone, or the crack of a whip.
Snape rose abruptly, and his chair nearly toppled over with the force with which he stood. A few of the students jumped, startled, and gazed up at their teacher with wide, skittish eyes. He stepped forward, and they shrank back as if he had made to strike them---terror.
One of the Ravenclaw prefects---Clearwater, that was her name---tilted her head curiously to the side, a frown marring her pretty face. "...Sir?" she tentatively ventured, but her voice was drowned out by yet another crack, another scream. Each was more violent, more...persuasive...than the last. Snape ignored her and made his way toward the door, a sharp chill running down along his spine.
"Sir?" the girl tried again, but the only answer she received was the loud slam of the door as the Potions master abandoned his classroom.
In the hallway, Snape stopped, and listened as if awaiting a command.
From the left, his mind hissed, and he started in that direction. The screams were more frequent now, one immediately following the other, more than one voice, entwining with the cracks, crunches and sizzles in an aria of anguish that had not filled the dungeons in decades, centuries. He reached the end of the corridor, and the strange hiss that coiled around his thoughts spoke again: Right.
Once more, he followed it, and continued to take the direction it ordered through the murky labyrinth of the dungeons. The deeper he travelled, the more acute his senses became. The scent of mildew hung thick in the air, and the closer he got to his mysterious destination, other smells mingled as well---something warm, charred, and a metallic tang too fresh for its dark, aged tomb. Burnt flesh. Spilt blood. The scents of suffering perfumed the air so copiously he could all but taste them on his tongue.
The torches that lined the walls sprang to life for the first time in years, illuminating his path and destroying the spiderwebs that had been strung along their tops, but were now forsaken. Now and then he would come across the skeletons of rats, even one of a cat, its jaws parted in a mute howl of fright. Little white warnings standing guard, letting him know that despite the screams, which were growing louder by the second, every creature that walked this path was silenced eventually.
An elation he had not felt in over a decade suddenly sprang to life within him at the sights, sounds and scents of this place, this foreboding journey. He remembered the last time he had been in such an environment, and enjoyed it. The shrieks of the lesser beings who were being quite clearly informed of their mortality. When bequeathing pain and torment upon others as freely as Saint Nicholas bequeathed Christmas gifts upon good little children had been second nature to him, and he had relished it, bathed in their misery and felt godlike with the remnants of their despair on his skin. In youth, when his own immortality had never been questioned, until one day someone finally told the monster that he was indeed a man...
Here.
For the second time, he stopped, this time in front of an oak door coated with dust and grime. The sounds were strongest here, rich with agony, and he closed his eyes to better savour them. He could hear the whispering arc of the whip before it struck flesh and cracked its climax with the slicing skin. He could smell the smoke rising with a sultry hiss as it unfurled from a hot poker meeting fingers. And he could feel the cold breath of a cruel murmur in his bones, the most severe punishment, and the softest one spoken, "Crucio."
Slowly, he reached out a hand and grasped the door handle. The filthy iron should have been as chilled as the dungeons themselves, but to him it felt warm, polished and often used. He paused for a moment, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth metal, taking time to appreciate the feel of it as though it were a long-lost and much treasured possession.
Possession.
Severus opened his eyes, and opened the door.
The new air rushed into the room like a gust of wind, stealing away whatever delight he had felt as it also stole away the scents and sounds that had been resonating throughout the dungeons for the last half hour. Hushed were the screams until they became dead as those who had first emanated them. Gone was the heady smell of burning human flesh. Quieted was the whispered Cruciatus Curse. All that was left was a cold, pitch black dungeon, empty but for a few unravelled cobwebs drifting in the slight breeze of the open door.
A sickening knot formed in the pit of Snape's stomach as he stared into the abyss of the room, as if he expected it to come to life again at any given moment. The sudden absence of the fleeting euphoria that had swept into his mind brought forth the memories of why that particular drug had ceased to bring him pleasure long ago, and the double tinge of both fright and exhilaration that it had managed to leak into his system once more made him feel ill with uncertainty and agitation.
This had been a possession of a different sort, more like the Imperius Curse that he had first suspected but knew to be a false half hope regarding his ethereal night-time encounters with Rosaline. He had been led here by a force beyond his control, yes, but this time...this time, the emotions had been his own, long-buried and thought dead. He had attended their funeral with a gift of poison that had nearly destroyed him completely, but here, now, they had risen just the same, like a disembodied Lazarus, the first vampire to ever walk the earth.
Like a vampire, the emotions leeched his strength from him, and he braced his left arm against the wall to steady himself through a wave of dizziness that made his legs feel weak and his eyes feel tired.
With careful, deliberate steps, he entered the dungeon and drew out his wand from the pocket of his robes.
"Lumos," he whispered, and the blackness of the room was kept at bay by a soft glow of pale green light that encircled the tip of his wand. Severus surveyed his surroundings.
Against the centre of the far wall sat a crude wooden bed with leather straps and silver buckles, and tightly braided ropes wound 'round a large wooden wheel. In the corner furthest from him was a large silver bowl resting on a high stone platform---a dish to keep the fire in---and nestled at its base like loyal pets were the pokers, still blackened from use as recently as two centuries ago. Hanging on the wall nearest to him was the whip, coiled like a great black serpent on an old and rusted nail, its tip still crusted with the dried blood of its last and final victim. If the amount of filth covering everything in the room was any indication, this chamber had not been opened in years. No fresh blood, no flame-engulfed pokers, no recent screams. All in his head.
Fuck, he censored himself, as if he feared the sound of his voice would shatter whatever magic held the dungeons intact and kept the rest of the school from falling into them. This is madness.
This was daylight. Hours until sunset, even longer until midnight. This was daylight. He'd been drawn from his own classroom, with his students right in front of him, pulled halfway out of his mind as though he'd been swept up in a memory---for that is what this had felt like, the past. Still where it belonged, but slipping gradually into the present as if it had found a leak in time. The possessions had infected him; now the virus was slithering just beneath his skin, biding its time until the moment was ripe for a physical manifestation.
They were growing stronger.
Rosaline---had she experienced anything of this sort? The chances were high that she would fall victim to this sort of...episode...before he would. But if she had, why wouldn't she mention it to him? Was she keeping things from him?
No, you daft prat. You've made it quite clear to her that you wish to deal with this matter privately, in the singular sense, i.e. without her. It's possible she tried to tell you and you wouldn't allow her to get a word in edge-wise.
But Snape didn't want to hear her words on the subject. He didn't want to hear his words on the subject, for that meant that there was a subject in the first place, and one he didn't want to be included in.
Don't try to fool yourself. You're horrible at it.
He was, and perhaps an even greater annoyance than the situation itself was that it would not let him ignore it. He clung childishly to his futile rebellion of it, not wanting to hear it or see it, or think of it or speak of it.
But then, he wasn't too keen on be lured by phantom screams to an abandoned torture chamber whose current purpose was to collect dust while he was in the middle of teaching a class, either. It was, to put it mildly, quite the conundrum.
Fuck.
"Nox."
The morbid sight of the room faded abruptly to black as the light from his wand was extinguished. Still not knowing precisely what it was he was going to or was meant to do, Snape left the chamber and shut the door behind him, then began to retrace his steps back to his classroom. His students would know better than to ask where he went, and for once he found himself looking forward to their oblivious expressions and blissfully ignorant young minds.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Rosaline forwent her tea with Flitwick once again that afternoon, choosing instead to shut herself up in her rooms with the Witch Wireless Network and a stack of assignments to mark. The low writing desk she worked at was positioned in front of one of the windows that faced the lake---not a very good place for a writing desk, really, for it was all too easy for Rosaline to simply glance up and lose herself in reveries.
It was raining outside, a steady grey drizzle that cast the world in a gloomy shadow. Though it was scarcely half past four, she had to light a candle in order to see what she was doing, and every so often wondered where in the world some of her students had learned such horrible penmanship. She'd had to read over Fred Weasley's paper thrice before she'd managed to grasp the basic skeleton of what the boy was trying to say; his brother George's paper hadn't been much better.
"...and it was in this way that the Grand High Pillocks (Wizard's Council) came to the decision that the Dungbombs (Danish) were full of shite (new ideas) about how wizarding governments should be run (away from)." Well. Not much use in deducting points on the basis of someone's opinion...
"At least his facts are accurate," she sighed to herself, and after measuring the scroll to be sure it was of the proper length, scrawled down a decent mark at the top of the parchment. "On to Miss Bell's..." Katie Bell's assignment was at least, to Rosaline's relief, legible.
A brief flash of lightning lit up the lake momentarily, drawing the History of Magic professor's attention toward the window yet again as a low boom of thunder rumbled across the skies. What had started out as an autumn shower was rapidly winding itself into a storm.
Plump droplets streaked down the glass as if they were racing against each other. Now and again, a sharp gust of wind would send the rain knocking against the window like drumming fingernails demanding entrance. It was no wonder to Rosaline that the ancients thought of weather not as acts of the gods, but as the gods themselves. Why not? she bitterly mused. Everything else in this damned world has something hidden and waiting to break free.
She sighed once more, and forced herself to return to her work. Flitwick had been disappointed and more than a little troubled-looking when she had declined his invitation to tea yet again, which meant that she would have to hurry with her work if she wanted to make it down to dinner and prove to him that she did indeed still eat, which would hopefully be enough to appease him, if only temporarily.
"Why can no one accept that I only wish to be left alone?" she wondered aloud, her eyes flickering toward the window despite her resolve.
"Why can't you accept that we only pry because we fear for you?"
Rosaline jumped at the voice, her heart taking a short plunge into her stomach for a second as Katie Bell's assignment fell from her hand, then promptly curled up just before it hit the floor. Rosaline twisted around in her seat, calming a bit when she saw that it was only the Grey Lady, who was waist-deep in the floor but floating up into the room completely as the young witch watched.
"Lady Jane, I really do wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that," she snapped in annoyance, then immediately regretted sounding so cross.
"Perhaps I wouldn't need to sneak up on you, if you would only stop avoiding me as if I carried the plague," the spectre bit back, and the guilt occupying Rosaline's stomach gave an uncomfortable wrench.
"I...I haven't been avoiding you," she lied, and knew that there was no way her words sounded genuine. The Grey Lady arched a disbelieving eyebrow and bore down on the History of Magic professor with a piercing, regal stare. "Look," Rosaline tried again, "I'm sorry. I just...I've got a lot of work to sort through right now and I---"
"Hold your tongue, girl," the ghost cut her off, and the young witch frowned, taken aback. The Grey Lady had never sounded so harsh before. "You have been keeping things from me."
"What?" Rosaline blinked. "No---"
"And you have been lying, to myself and to Professor Flitwick. Something is going on, and I demand to know what it is." There was a tinge of hurt in the ghost's voice instilled along with its cold inflection, and Rosaline found it difficult to swallow her remorse and build up her indignation. She was aching to spill her secrets, to tell the phantom what was happening to herself and Professor Snape. The Grey Lady already knew of the first possession, and the dream---surely she would understand...but Rosaline couldn't risk it, couldn't risk the possibility that the ghost could let something slip, or go to Dumbledore despite Rosaline's wishes. The Grey Lady was a good friend, and cared for the woman she had once sat through the long nights with when the woman had been a girl---but that was just it. She cared too much. She would think she was doing the right thing by going to the headmaster, would think she was doing what was best for Rosaline.
Would she be right? Was that best? What would Snape do when he found out? And why the hell did Rosaline care so much?
The History of Magic professor looked away for a moment, then shook her head. There were still too many questions, too many possible outcomes. Now was not the right time.
Will there ever be a right time? she wondered. A thousand years might not be long enough...
"There's nothing," she softly insisted. "I've just been in a rotten mood lately, and I didn't think it would be fair to expose anyone else to it unless I had to." Please believe me. Please just let this go.
To Rosaline's surprise, a small, sad smile formed on the Grey Lady's pale lips, but it was soon replaced by the same icy glare she had entered the room with.
"More lies?" she asked. "I never realised was little value you placed on our friendship. I want the truth, Rosaline. What is going on with you?"
"It's none of your business," Rosaline muttered, frustration welling up inside of her at how easily the ghost could see right through her falseness as though she were just as transparent. It seemed to be a common trait amongst the spirit world, and it was one that Rosaline had not and was not finding to be an enjoyable experience at all.
The Grey Lady didn't reply, and glided over to stand in front of the witch, her insubstantial body severed at her waist by the writing desk. Rosaline watched with puzzled eyes as the spectre reached forward and lightly took hold of her hands, sending a wave of cold through her veins that made her shiver, and made her throat close up with disconcerting memories. The ghost turned her hands over so that they faced palm-up, and raised them slightly so that the sleeves of Rosaline's robes fell down to settle in the crooks of her arms. "Do these have anything to do with it?" the Grey Lady cynically queried, disgust tarnishing her strange voice. The witch looked down and, realising what the ghost was talking about, snatched her hands away and quickly pulled her sleeves back over her wrists.
"No," she said forcefully. "How did you---"
"Professor Snape was kind enough to inform me of them," the Grey Lady answered her before she had a chance to finish. "It makes one wonder how he would know about them, especially since you loathe his presence so." There was a note of sarcasm in the phantom's tone that seemed to imply the exact opposite, though Rosaline was barely listening and didn't catch it.
"Snape...how did he...I never..." the witch trailed off, anger and confusion bubbling up inside of her like a boiling cauldron. "That bastard..."
Apparently, the Grey Lady wasn't listening much to Rosaline, either. "How could you do a thing like this?" she demanded, her voice rising furiously. "How on Earth could you ever want something like this?!"
"It was a long time ago," Rosaline maintained. "I was feeling---"
"No, you weren't!" the ghost exclaimed. "You couldn't have been feeling anything at all to want death! It is one thing to be killed, to have death forced upon you against your will, but to try and take your own life---something that precious---and you have no idea---" Rosaline had never seen the Grey Lady so incensed before; the spectre was so upset she could barely speak. "How could you possibly long to die?"
Rosaline herself had no words to contribute, so stunned was she by the Grey Lady's outburst. Truthfully, she had never given much consideration to the fact that her childhood friend had indeed been murdered at the age of seventeen simply to set an example. They had never spoken of it much, and Lady Jane often tried to make light of her situation; the full weight of what had happened to her, the unfairness of it, and the tragedy, had never actually sunk into Rosaline's head until now. She felt as though she should apologise---but for what? For not considering the feelings of a ghost that, at the time, she had not seen in over four years? No. She would not allow herself to be painted as a villain for that.
"Because then," she slowly explained, "death was preferable to the things I felt in life. I did feel---gods, you have no idea how much I felt---and I wanted to stop. I didn't want to feel anymore. I know it was a selfish thing to do, and I'm sorry that it bothers you so much, but as I said before, it was a long time ago---"
"You think you would have ceased to feel in death?" the Grey Lady interrupted her. "You spent seven years in my company and believed that death was the solution to whatever problems you were facing? That death was the solution to---to anything? If you were so unhappy in life, what in the world ever made you think that that pain so selfishly dealt with would have allowed you to be free of it in death? What made you think that you wouldn't..." She paused, swallowing down a hitch in her voice that signalled the onset of her ethereal tears. "...that you wouldn't end up like me?"
Rosaline shook her head. "I was stupid; I know that now---now. I moved on, and I let it go. It's in the past---"
"The past? You let go of the past? I would very much like to know how. Everything we do is shaped by what we have done before, and what has happened before in this world---everything. Is that what you would have me do---forget the past? I cannot. No one can. The world is shackled by the past, Rosaline. You teach history, for Heaven's sake, how could that knowledge possibly escape you?"
"It hasn't," Rosaline snapped indignantly. "Believe me, Lady Jane, it hasn't."
"Then tell me something. You longed for death once---tell me, and tell me truthfully: do you long for it again?"
The History of Magic professor stared up at the spectre, who stared back with a hard and imploring silvered eyes. "No," she answered, trying to force all of her conviction into her tone, and perhaps coming across as though she was trying to convince herself as well.
The sceptical look returned to the Grey Lady's face. "No?"
"No."
"You didn't sound so certain that time."
Rosaline opened her mouth to argue, but the ghost spoke again before she could respond.
"You tasted death once, but have you ever tasted that which follows? What would have become of you? What it is to be a ghost, a soul trapped not by a body, but by woe, by sorrow?"
Yes! the witch wanted to scream, so badly she had to bite down on her tongue to keep herself from shouting the word in resentment. Instead, she did nothing more than remain completely still---Still as a corpse.
"Do you wish to know what it feels like to be nothing more than a wisp of breath caught in a glass jar? Do you want me to show you?"
Rosaline blinked, bewildered and suspicious at the phantom's words. Her hands balled up into nervous fists, and a foreboding feeling tightened in her throat. "W-what---what do you mean?" she asked, dread creeping along her skin like prickly caterpillars.
Wordlessly, the Grey Lady floated forward and, before Rosaline could realise what she was doing, slipped beneath the witch's skin.
Rosaline gasped in shock at the sudden wave of cold that embedded itself deep within her breast, deep within her stomach, like she'd been thrown into a bath of ice water and had forgotten how to both breathe and hold her breath. Her throat closed up, and a sharp, frozen pain scratched and crawled along her muscles. She stilled, waiting for the ghost to continue her journey and float through her back, but the cold did not lessen. The Grey Lady did not move from her space, did not cease in her task of turning her host's very soul to ice.
"Stop..." Rosaline choked out, her voice small, almost a whimper. Her joints ached with the persistent winter that seeped into her bones. This was unlike any possession, this raw, uncontrolled frost that bit into her eyes, her lungs, her heart. The only familiarity was that of the sense of being invaded by a foreign psyche, not manipulating her emotions or her actions, but ruling over her body just the same, infecting her like a disease. And oh, it hurt---it hurt, and the pain would not pass. "Let me go," she shakily pleaded. Her vision was beginning to darken---could this kill her? Or was she simply closing her eyes? "Let me go..."
"This is what you wanted, is it not?" The Grey Lady's calmly mocking voice echoed strangely somewhere between Rosaline's throat and ribcage, making her feel sick.
"Let me go," she ordered, panic infusing her words and making them louder, shriller. "Let me go!"
"This is what you wanted," the ghost repeated, anger twisting her speech into an unearthly hiss.
"Let me go!" she shrieked, straining against her own body to move, but the cold was too bitter, too deadening, and she could do nothing but shiver. "Let me go!"
At last, the spectre obliged, swirling like a glacial wind as she glided through Rosaline's spine and out her back. There was a split-second of numbness, followed by a slow flood of blistering heat at the sudden absence of ice, as life scraped its way back into the witch's flesh and bone. She winced and slumped forward in her chair, tightly folding her arms and hanging her head before the blindness of relief faded and gave way to lividness.
"Get out," she muttered through clenched teeth.
All was silent for a moment, but Rosaline could feel that the Grey Lady's chilling presence had not left the room.
"...I only gave you what you wanted," the phantom murmured slowly, and Rosaline stood and spun around, knocking her chair to the floor in her haste.
"I did not want that, and you damn well know it!" she yelled, flushed and trembling in fury.
"Then explain yourself!" the Grey Lady retorted, just as vociferously.
"You explain yourself! How could you do that to me?!"
"How could you do it to yourself?" the ghost bit back. Rosaline glared at her in disgust.
"Is that all you care about?" she spat. "A decision I made five years ago that had absolutely no impact on you? It was a bad decision, yes, but it was mine---my life. You had no right to do what you just did to me, no right to hurt me like that! Is this all more than seven years of friendship means to you, that you could just---just violate my body like you did out of---out of---why did you do that to me? What reason do you have to be so angry with me about something so damn...trite?"
"Life is never trite!" the ghost shouted, forgetting her regal sensibilities. "Never! And if you would treat it as such then you are undeserving of it!"
Rosaline gaped at the Grey Lady, slightly stunned by the spectre's confession. "Is that what this is about? You feel I don't deserve to live?"
"No, that...that is not what I meant---"
"You're jealous, aren't you? Jealous that I still have the choice of whether or not I want to live."
The ghost sighed in exasperation, one hand flying unconsciously to the ribbon encircling her throat. "I---I only want..."
"To live again. There seems to be a lot of that going around," Rosaline bitterly snapped.
"I only want," the Grey Lady said again, her eyes flashing in annoyance at being interrupted, "to make sure that your life does mean something to you. It really is so precious, Rosaline, and it can be so short. You've been so sullen lately, and I worry. I worry for you. People cannot afford to simply let it drift away. Embrace life and never, ever take it for granted, because you will never get a second chance at it."
Were that but true. "So that's it? Couldn't the pretty words of wisdom have been bestowed without the hypothermia? Or did you just toss that part in for your own personal pleasure?"
"I was only trying to show you---"
"I do not need to be shown! I have seen enough! Too much, in fact, and I can do without you trying to inflict the moral of your tragic demise upon me along with everything else! All right? Have I made myself perfectly clear, or do I need some sort of morbid demonstration in order to get my point across? Oh, wait, I can't do that---you'll worry for me, and we can't have that, now, can we? Heavens forefend if my personal affairs inconvenience you in any way."
"You would rather I not concern myself with you at all?" the ghost enquired, masking hurt with sarcasm.
"Yes, please!" Rosaline exclaimed, sighing as though their argument had finally reached a breakthrough. "Bloody hell, I just want to be left alone! Why is that so hard for everyone to accept?"
"Because they care about you!" the Grey Lady snapped before turning to go, pausing only once to glance back over her shoulder for a final contemptuous remark before she disappeared through the wall. "Thank God I no longer have to."
It was a cruel comment, and it delivered every ounce of the sting that it had been intended to, though Rosaline was still too infuriated to take note of the wound. For a long while, she simply stood there, breathing slowly in an attempt to compose herself. She couldn't allow herself to become any more upset than she already was. She would only end up working herself deeper into frustration, and that couldn't happen now. She had too much to do, and more important things to work through.
It felt strange to her, the knowledge that, given such a ripe opportunity to spill her secrets to the one person she had pondered divulging them to in the first place, she truly hadn't wanted to. It was an almost protective urge, to guard that with which she had been entrusted and keep it under lock and key. So whose urge was it? Her own? Ravenclaw's?
Snape's?
Rosaline couldn't be entirely sure of the extent of whatever "link" they shared, or how heavily one's influence weighed on the other's. She could feel him, that much she knew. His presence would drift over her in soft waves, sometimes so gently it would escape her notice completely if her attention was focused elsewhere. It was strongest, of course, the closer she was to him, like the pull of a magnet. She wondered if he could feel it, too. No doubt he found it just as disconcerting as she did, if he could. Is that how he knew of her scars?
If only he would allow her to speak with him; there was so much she wanted---needed---to find out. It was pointless to keep what knowledge one might have from the other. They were never going to solve anything unless they cooperated with each other when they were not being forced to.
What is there that needs solving? You know who the spirits are, and you know that they are too strong to be vanquished. What else is there for either of you to do except allow this to run its course?
But Rosaline didn't know how long that would take, or what precisely it implied. She did not like Snape, and she had no desire to be his friend, let alone his lover. If it weren't for Slytherin's influence on him, she might have believed him physically incapable of things like friendship and love, basic humanity. She had yet to come across an instance when he was completely without hostility toward anyone or anything, except perhaps his beloved potions. Rosaline loathed potions; she had ever since her school days, when Professor Asper, then Head of Slytherin House, had been the mistress of the subject. More often than not, they smelled awful and tasted worse, and with her unsteady hands it was a rare stroke of luck that she managed to measure out her ingredients correctly. It was no wonder that she and Snape were such a noxious amalgamation.
With a heavy sigh, Rosaline returned to the writing desk and plucked Bell's assignment off the floor, hoping to lose her mind in her work, though both it and her concentration were elsewhere at the moment. She glanced over her shoulder, knowing full well that the Grey Lady would not be paying her another visit that evening, but a few traces of ice still lingered in her chest and suspicion nestled near them regardless of logic. So that's what they mean by "bitter cold."
Shivering at the memory of the feeling, she picked up her quill once more and began to sift through the fourteen-year-old's loopy handwriting. Outside, another bolt of lightning illuminated the darkening world, followed by a wave of thunder a few seconds and a thousand years later.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The storm raged well into the evening and night, and wasn't expected to lessen until the next morning. Severus listened to the rain pelt against the solitary slender window in his private chambers as he lay in his bed, caught in the peculiar place between sleep and awake, where lucid dreams patiently wait for their cues.
Snape was not dreaming, not even in the lucid sense. He didn't know how long he had been laying there, his eyes open yet unseeing, staring up at the blackness of his canopy; he didn't care. The atmosphere was violent tonight, and he clung to the stillness within his rooms, as though he could weave a protective web of calm and tranquillity if he kept his breath silent, and his body motionless. His heartbeat was slow, and his skin cool from the night air. If he resembled a corpse long enough, he would be passed over tonight, and left to rest in peace. The dead did not inhabit the dead.
But as the minutes wore on, he could feel the cold weight of steel grow steadily heavier on his limbs. The phantom chains that bound him now would not be so easily fooled. He pondered briefly if they would raise him up in the air to be whipped. A sharp crack and a faint scream echoed in his mind, and the drawn curtains surrounding his bed rustled in a soft, icy breeze.
"Sev-er-us..."
Snape turned over on his stomach, his fingertips biting into the sheets as if that alone could hold him to his bed. "No," he whispered, and shut his eyes like a frightened child who's all too aware of the monster creeping---slithering---across the floor, already salivating at the prospect of such a defenceless meal.
"Sev-er-us..." The voice was raspier this time, more commanding. He could feel his will beginning to dissipate from his body in the form of a cold sweat, and the new, wraithlike presence slip within him in a quiet growl of breath. A strangled gasp escaped his mouth, "No," but it was in vain. There was no stopping this parasite from leeching off of his soul.
He was trembling, every inch of flesh and bone straining against the foreign entity as they simultaneously absorbed it. He twisted around, first turning on his side and then onto his back, and arched up until he was pulled, his spine curling forward until he was sitting upright. A blinding fissure of lightning lit up the room, banishing what little was left of his own consciousness with its searing burn against his eyes. A second eerie scream rode atop its accompanying thunder.
Salazar smiled.
He craned his head, cracking his neck, then slid from the bed and to his feet. Inhaling deeply, he savoured the wicked symphony resonating throughout the dungeon halls, as though the sound alone was enough to infuse his body with the power that was exuded from human desperation. He clenched his fingers into fists, stretching and testing the lean muscles of his arms, and rose up on his toes as if he expected the air to simply take him high as he willed it to, like a cobra poised to strike. Releasing his breath slowly, he lowered himself back down to the ground, then made his way toward the door.
He did not need his eyes, much less the torches mounted on the walls that lit up as he passed by them, to see his path, nor his ears to guide him. He had travelled this route many times, and could have walked it in his sleep. Out of amusement, he allowed one hand to trace his course in the wall as he sauntered onward. The texture of the cold stones against his fingertips was strangely comforting, and he had the distinct feeling that it had been too long since he had observed their craftsmanship, and the time and care with which he had conjured and constructed every one of them. Still, they felt new, as though every blemish had withstood the trials of time, resisted the wear that turns sharp to soft, and rough to smooth.
He pulled his hand back when the pads of his fingers began to numb.
Pausing at a juncture at the end of one corridor, a small smirk touched his lips as he glanced left, then proceeded right. She would be righteous tonight, with the screams as loud as they were.
Another right, and then a left, and he arrived at his destination. She was already there, of course, lingering near the door with her back to him, poised tentatively on the balls of her bare feet as if she were preparing to take flight. Silently, he padded toward her and leaned close, his body a mere fraction of an inch from hers. He ran a hand along the line of her hair, not quite touching the smooth strands, but outlining their waves in careful, deliberate motions. He stopped when he reached the ends, and gently ran a solitary finger along the small of her back, grazing the cloth of her corset so lightly she took no notice of the simple touch.
"The dungeons are no place for a lady," he hissed, and delighted in her small, startled jump. She spun around to face him accusingly, but the look quickly melted away into a carefully schooled impassiveness.
"No," she agreed, a beguiling glimmer in her eyes, like a lightning flash seen from beneath the surface of the ocean. "Shall I leave, then?" She began to brush past him without waiting for his answer, and he caught her by the wrist, holding her in place against him. Another strangled shriek resounded through the door, and she shivered against him in revulsion. She'd always hated the screams, and blamed him for her queer addiction to their guttural despondency. Such strange and repulsively alluring sounds.
He tilted his head to place what might have been a chaste kiss on the curve of her shoulder, if he hadn't tasted her skin with a deft flick of his tongue before pulling back, ever the serpent hiding beneath the flower. "No," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "I think I would much prefer you here."
She turned to look up at him questioningly, but he silenced her before she could speak, claiming her mouth with his own. Her lips parted slightly, and he took full advantage of her surprise, sweeping his tongue along hers as he wrenched her closer to him. Amidst a fresh chorus of screams, she responded, one hand encircling his neck as if to garrotte him, the other sliding around to drag her nails along the heated skin of his back. He shuddered and took a step forward, pressing her firmly against the stone wall that he now recalled with great admiration. Deftly, he untied the pale ribbon that held her corset together, and unlaced the wretched garment just enough so that it fit her loosely.
She hummed a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands journeyed beneath the constricting fabric until his arms were wrapped around her, holding her flush against him. The sound mingled pleasantly amidst the din of torture; she did have a lovely voice, and its pitch was perfect no matter the word, lyric or cry she was given to match.
The cool, sweet taste of rosemary lingered on her skin---For remembrance, he recalled, and knew that in a thousand years he still would not be able to forget her, when both their bodies would be long delivered to the earth. Rosemary would grow on her grave, and merrily scent the weeds that would likely grow on his. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the gentle fog to sharpen his senses as he trailed his lips down the white flesh of her throat, and his hands down the soft arc of her hips. She arched toward him, pressing her body into his as she scraped her fingernails lightly down his sides, curved their path toward his stomach, and he could not suppress the pleasurable tremor that shuddered through him.
Her blue eyes were liquid and dark and shining in the torchlight, rivalling the storm that echoed throughout the more exposed portions of the castle, and he felt as though he were a man dying of thirst placed before an oasis, half mad for the intoxicating drink to be found in her body and in her breath. In ancient times, the breath was thought to contain the soul, and hers was now brushing against his lips in small, warm clouds in the frozen dungeon air. He kissed her deeply, and devoured it. Even after all these years, that light still shone inside her, that strange sense of innocence that never seemed to fade, even in passions such as this that might have marred any other woman as a whore. But she was no whore---she was his and his alone. He had been her first lover, her only lover, and that glorious light within her was like a treasure he enjoyed the thrill of stealing over and over again, every time he took her. And perhaps what enticed him most of all, was that she took as much pleasure in being his victim, as he took in being her possessor.
With a predatory growl, he pushed her back, crushing her against the wall, loosening her soul from the cage of her ribs and savouring its sweetness. His lips and teeth marked a pinkening trail that led from the shadow of the place where her collar bones met, down to the tops of her breasts that rose and fell with growing fervency under the skilled administrations of his hands, which by now had begun to travel the lines of her body, tracing every curve, every plane of her. One long, slim leg rose up to wrap around his hips in a silent, feverish plea as the melodious shrieks resonating out from the chamber began to heighten in their intensity---or was that merely his own mind screaming for hers, or vice-versa? Either way, this symphony would not be content to languish away its dungeon fate. It demanded a crescendo as ardently as his own body ached for one.
The sound of her skirt ripping up the seam that contoured her left leg was lost among the chantings of the greater screams and lesser sighs that filled the torchlit corridor.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Gilderoy Lockhart strode importantly across the Entrance Hall, his oddly coloured (not quite pea soup, not quite lime) robes flapping importantly behind him as though he had attempted to train them to billow, but had settled instead to draw attention to himself through their colour, rather than their disposition. As it was, their sour green state was somewhat reflective of their wearer's mood---following the Creevey boy's Petrification, Dumbledore had pushed back the starting date of the Duelling Club by nearly a month. What point there was in doing so, Gilderoy did not know. The more self-defence he could teach the students', the more likely it was that they would not be on the receiving end of the same fate that had befallen the eleven-year-old Gryffindor---at least, such was the case that he had presented to the headmaster. Personally, he saw it as something of a dig at himself. Perhaps he was becoming too popular amongst the children, and old Dumbledore was beginning to get jealous. Yes, that fit the bill quite nicely. Dumbledore, aging and with so very little credit to his name---not once had he won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award---and standing next to someone as young, attractive and renowned as Gilderoy Lockhart was bound to make even the most good-natured person at least a little bit envious.
He had decided, without much thought, to go and see Professor Snape on the matter. Sure, the man was a Slytherin, but nowhere near as good-looking as Lockhart, nor as well-known, and Dumbledore seemed to take him seriously based on this fact. How the noble must suffer in order to be heard, Gilderoy inwardly sighed. Truth be told, he wasn't a fan of the dark and scowling Potions master. He seemed a bit up himself, and if there was anything Gilderoy could not stand, it was arrogance. But as he had agreed to assist in the Duelling Club demonstration, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor figured it was only fair that he do his part and protest the pushed-back starting date alongside Lockhart. They were partners, after all. Well, more like teacher and student. General and lieutenant, actually. Or maybe mother and son...no. No, no. That road only led to unpleasant thoughts. Gilderoy shook his head and grimaced slightly, showing more pearly white teeth than one would think possible to show in such a facial expression.
Snape was a night owl, Lockhart was certain. The pallor alone would have been enough to tip him off---honestly, had the man never heard of Rudskin's Sun-In-A-Tin? A small orb of ultra-violet brilliance just waiting for one's personal relaxation and complexion correction for only sixteen silver Sickles per hour-long sun-bubble---but Lockhart had it on high authority---namely, his own, from a rather regrettable personal experience---that Slytherins in general were not creatures of the day. Surely Snape, with his nearly vampiric looks and matching demeanour, was no exception to this rule. Thus, Gilderoy entered the antechamber that contained the staircases that led down into the Hogwarts dungeons. He hated the dungeons. They always smelled queer, a bad mixture of potion fumes and damp rot. Definitely not an environment for the unfortunate souls prone to frizzy hair---one of which Gilderoy was unquestionably not, but he didn't want his robes smelling of anything other than Lyria's Lilac Rain for Wizards. The scent of mould was almost never good for one's public image.
He decided to try the man's office first, and following that, his rooms. Gilderoy wasn't quite sure where the Potions master's private chambers were, nor did he particularly care to know, despite the inconvenience it currently caused him. But he'd be damned if he came all the way down here in vain.
Stopping in front of the forbidding-looking door, Lockhart drew himself up (importantly), and knocked a pleasant little tune. Silence answered him in its usual mute tone.
"Hello?" he called out experimentally; perhaps Snape simply wasn't in the mood for company, but if he knew who it was... "Professor Snape, it's Gilderoy Lockhart. Are you in?"
Again, there was nothing. Gilderoy tried the door handle. Predictably, it was locked. He pondered using an Unlocking Charm on it, but stopped short. Despite his nosy tendencies, if Snape did eventually turn up, Gilderoy wasn't so sure he wanted to have to face the dark man to explain what he was doing rooting around in his office. Even if he placed a Memory Charm on him, Snape was Slytherin, and possibly shrewd enough to put two and two together.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor sighed and looked left, then right. The Slytherin dormitories were to his right; chances were that the Slytherin head of house's rooms were in the same direction. Still, the corridor was pitch black and empty, perfect for all manners of things to slither around unnoticed. Buck up, old boy, he told himself. You're Gilderoy Lockhart. No man or beast is ignorant of your reputation, and no man or beast would dare think of attacking you because of it. And besides, the torches will come on as you pass.
With firm resolve, he started off down the dark hallway.
And didn't turn twice before he was thoroughly lost.
What had Slytherin been thinking, building these dungeons? They were like a maze.
...actually, the more Lockhart thought about it, the more evident it became that a maze was exactly what Slytherin must have been thinking. Secret chambers, hidden passageways, ten ways to get to one place and a dozen more ways to get lost trying to find it. It all would have been somewhat fascinating to Gilderoy, if his mind hadn't bypassed such intriguing details and gone immediately to "a thousand and one places to hide horrific monsters." Which, he was certain, there were, and gods only knew what sort of creatures a Dark Parselmouth would keep as pets. Gilderoy wasn't keen on finding out.
Young children are often taught that, if they become lost, the best thing to do is simply to stay put and wait until somebody finds them. It was good, sound advice, and it made perfect sense to Lockhart. The trouble was that he was not a young child, and though he had no doubt that search parties would be dispatched by the hundreds once someone took notice that Gilderoy Lockhart had gone missing, getting lost in what was these days, for all intents and purposes, a school basement, lacked the sort of flair that would astonish and amaze the masses. Well, that problem was solved easily enough---he would lie about it. That only left the quandary of waiting. How long would he be trapped in here, if he truly were lost? He might very well starve or freeze to death before anyone located him. And his hair would look utterly atrocious while that happened. No, it would not do for anyone to see him in such a state, even if they were out to save his life. He would have to press on. Every labyrinth has a centre, he told himself, which meant that, sooner or later, he would reach a destination, if not his preferred one.
He'd only been walking for about ten minutes when an odd sound caught his ear, made him pause. Fear flashed briefly through him---The monster.---but he forced it down with a rough swallow. It didn't sound like a monster. Indeed, if it was, from the muffled reverberations, it was far enough away that it probably didn't even realise he was there, and too...preoccupied...to notice him even if it weren't.
His eyes shifted toward the dark recesses of the corridor he was standing in. Yes, the noises were definitely coming from his right, and there was definitely more than one voice. At last, a sign of life! he thought, and allowed himself a small, lascivious smirk at its apparent nature. Now that he knew he would not be left alone to rot in this vile place, his mind immediately switched gears, and his innately prying nature could not help but become a little giddy at the thought of eavesdropping in on whomever seemed to be having a much more pleasant time than he was. Being privy to the secrets of others was, in Gilderoy's opinion, never a bad thing, and from these two anonymous persons' chosen rendezvous point, there was no way that their liaison, whatever purpose it held, was not meant to be a secret.
Slowly and cautiously, he crept down the corridor, keeping the light from springing forth out of the torches from a wave of his wand and a whispered incantation of "Infusco Lux." Upon reaching the corner, he stilled his breath, and peered around it.
It was not the "what" of the situation that surprised him, but rather the "who." In the warm, shimmering torchlight, locked in a most intimate---and soon to be even more intimate, from the look of things---embrace, were the pale-skinned and dark-haired figures of Professors Snape and Rosebridge, two people Gilderoy would never have thought to place together on his own. In fact, the mere thought of linking Snape to anyone romantically gave him a bit of a sick feeling in his stomach, especially linking Snape to the young witch currently pressed up against the grimy wall and apparently enjoying it far too much. Jealousy masked as disappointment slunk its way into Gilderoy's brain. It wasn't that he found himself particularly attracted to the History of Magic teacher, but she was...well, young, and she did have the potential to be pretty, if only she would do something about the lavender circles beneath her eyes, and perhaps add a bit of colour to her cheeks. She had a nice mouth, despite its present position of being thoroughly entwined with the Potions master's, and a dab of lipstick would have done wonders for its definition. And the hair---thick and wavy, but rather dull. Gilderoy knew of a hair tonic that could make it gleam brighter than the moonlight-drenched night sky, and it really was a pity...
Anyway, the point was that she was young and reasonably good-looking, and one did not have to look far to see where the problem with this scenario lay: She should have wanted him. He, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award. There wasn't a witch the whole world over whom he couldn't have.
So what on Earth was Rosebridge doing with Snape?
Correction: Why on Earth was Rosebridge doing what she was doing with Snape?
And then it occurred to Lockhart---perhaps she was with him, if only mentally. Perhaps she did want him, but considered herself too inferior to him to actually buck up the courage to approach him. She was a timid thing, after all. Yes, that was it. That had to be it. Because she felt unworthy of himself, she had taken to acting out her fantasies with Professor Snape, who, with his oily hair, sallow complexion and off-white, uneven teeth, was far less attractive than Gilderoy and thus probably something of an easy catch. Poor girl, Lockhart inwardly mused as the Potions master suddenly pushed Rosebridge against the wall and caught her gasp in his mouth.
Lockhart's eyes narrowed slightly. Piteous as he was wont to be on the lesser beings, the voyeur in him couldn't turn away from the sight of such unabashed passion. The other two professors' voices echoed strangely off the walls, sounding almost fragmented, disjointed, an ethereal sonata to their ardent motions, black and white and flame-red all over, like zealous demons. The sound of fabric being shredded rose up to join the fervent hisses and moans in song. Rosaline's corset slipped down her shoulders, her hands were hovering at the waistband of Snape's trousers---
---and then, quite suddenly, they stopped.
It was as though time had frozen around them, and for a few moments, not even the air stirred.
Snape tore himself away from her so swiftly, Gilderoy nearly jumped. The Potions master's breath seemed to return to him at the exact moment he turned away from the woman still leaning against the wall; it was quick, almost panting. The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor watched, bewildered and engrossed in the other man's perplexing reaction. It was almost seemed like he had only just realised what he had been doing.
Severus braced himself against the wall opposite Rosaline. He was trembling, shaking all over, as if fighting his own body, trying to fight off his own desire that had so fiercely overcome him scarcely a minute earlier.
The witch looked to be near tears. She was slowly pulling her corset back up with quivering hands. She looked weak, as though she might faint, or be sick. For a long while, neither moved, and there was nothing but silence between them. And then, in a meek, quiet voice that had Lockhart's ears perking up like a dog's, she spoke.
"We...we h-have to see the...see the headmaster," she stammered, then drew an uneasy, composing breath. "Snape, we have to. This cannot go on."
See the headmaster? Gilderoy wondered. For this? A lot of help his old arse will be. ...eugh. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Certainly there was a policy on sex of any kind occurring in the halls, even after-hours, and even so deep within the dungeons. One never knew when someone might come along and...interrupt, as his own presence so rightly proved. But just how morally moronic were these people to tell the headmaster of what they had nearly done? "We almost broke the rules and we thought you should know?" Or, "The bedroom no longer works for us; may we have a corridor of our own to shag in, please?" It didn't make any sense.
"...we will not," Snape replied, equally quiet, though his tone was acerbic, biting.
"Damn your stubbornness!" Rosaline shouted in a sudden burst of anger and frustration. Gilderoy winced---he hadn't thought it possible for her voice to become that loud. Snape whirled on her, stepping so close it seemed as though he would begin again with her where he had just left off.
Lockhart watched the muscle in the Potions master's temple throb with fury. "We...will...not," he slowly hissed, his face so near to hers that their lips nearly brushed as he spoke. Taunting her, or perhaps testing himself. Or both. Gilderoy heard her exhale a soft, shuddering sigh that could have been interpreted as fear, or something else entirely.
With a disgusted snarl, Snape pulled himself away from her once more and stalked down the hall, luckily heading in the opposite direction of Gilderoy himself. Rosaline waited until he had disappeared completely from view before she pushed off from the wall herself and began to slowly follow the dark man's path. The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor lingered behind, trailing her at a distance as he turned this new information over and over again in his mind. What was this secret that Snape insisted on keeping from Dumbledore, and how did it revolve around, of all things, what appeared to be a lovers' midnight symposium? Or were Rosebridge and Snape lovers at all? They certainly didn't act it---at least, not entirely, in both the physical and emotional sense. What was going on?
Gilderoy Lockhart smelt a rat---about that there was no doubt, as they can smell their own. The question was, what type of rat was Gilderoy Lockhart: A squealer, or a pack rat?
This was going to take some serious consideration.