It hadn't worked.
The previous evening, following dinner, still upset over her argument with the Grey Lady, Rosaline had gone to Madam Pomfrey and requested a potion to help her sleep. She hadn't even finished undressing when she swallowed the concoction, and had scarcely managed to collapse onto her bed not a moment later. If it had worked so quickly, her last thought had been that it must work well---but it hadn't. It hadn't worked at all, and today she felt all the more tired because of that fact, groggy and dazed, drugged. She wasn't sure how she had managed to drift through her first two classes, and had been grateful when the lunch bell finally rang.
Coffee, she thought to herself as she neared the staffroom, where the bitter solution was bound to be in abundance. Normally she would have preferred tea, but she needed something stronger, something that would ensure that she would not pass out in the middle of her next class.
The room was blissfully empty, and Rosaline allowed herself to slip into an unbecoming stagger as she made her way over to the percolater, tapping it once with her wand to heat it. She took down a random cup from the cupboard---McGonagall's, judging from the pawprints that continuously trailed around it---and, not caring about its ownership, filled it with the hot black liquid and took a long drink, grimacing all the while at the taste.
"Ugh!" she exclaimed, slamming the cup down on the wooden table on which the coffee maker sat. "Oh, that's foul. Now I remember why I never drink it."
Foul it was, but also effective. The taste and heat of the coffee had shocked her into a state closer to consciousness. She was beginning to loathe the thought of sleep altogether, almost as much as the thought of any food other than dry toast. She really did have to start eating more, to appease Filius, if nothing else. The tiny wizard was beginning to lose his subtlety in enquiring about her well being, and she didn't need to feel any worse mentally than she already did from having to continuously lie to the Charms professor.
Picking up the coffee cup once more, Rosaline slumped down in the nearest chair and took another long sip. Now that her head was beginning to clear, she half wished for the fog that had previously occupied it to return. A clear head meant focus, and her focus was, with the exception of when she was lecturing, directed to the more repugnant thoughts that incessantly floated around her brain. Memories, mostly. Memories, especially, of last night. What had nearly transpired in that filthy dungeon corridor...they had come too close, far too close.
And she had wanted it to happen.
No. Not me. Rowena. She wanted... the thought trailed off, and she left it unfinished. But even in abstract contemplation, she could still feel the phantom heat of him, of his hands moving over her body, the caress of his mouth against hers, the suffocating need he'd had for her, and she for him. It had been a while---and that was no excuse. These were not her feelings. She did not want Snape, and he didn't want her, either. The only chemistry between us is artificial. How pathetic is that?
Quite pathetic, she was certain. Pathetic, but strong. She had never desired anyone in her life as intensely as she had desired the Potions master last night, and it frightened her. The attraction still lingered in her veins, a subtle spiritual coercion trying to manipulate her into becoming a willing victim. Rowena apparently had a touch of cunning in herself as well---or perhaps she was simply following Salazar's lead. But if that were the case, then that meant Snape...
Rosaline felt her face go hot, and knew she had turned an unflattering shade of pink at the notion of Snape's residual feelings mirroring her own. It had been five years since she had last taken a lover, which was already proving to be quite the disadvantage; she briefly wondered how long it had been for him, then pushed the thought away. Don't be ridiculous, she chided herself. That's the last thing you need to be dwelling on right now.
...or was it? Physical intimacy was, after all, the largest problem they had encountered thus far with the possessions. If they were both feeling...repressed, so to speak, then it became more likely that they would actually act on the impulses they were being fed. So what do you propose I do, then? she asked her overactive brain. Go out and have a quick, emotionally void shag with a complete stranger? If that's the extent of it, I may as well just shag Snape and be done with it. At least I know him. Sort of. Though he would never agree to it. Unless he's currently pondering the situation himself and reaches the same conclusion. Oh, bad thoughts...bad, bad thoughts...
A vision of dark eyes, heavy-lidded and glittering in the dancing torchlight, hovered in front of her for a moment, sending a quiet thrill akin to fright throughout her body that welled up in her chest and made her heart speed up. She pushed it away. Those were dangerous eyes, the colour of the blackest shadows. The sort of shadows that demons like to hide in. Something sinister was napping within Severus Snape, Rosaline was certain of that much, though she did not know what. With him under the influence of Slytherin, with his wicked ways and Dark inclinations, she wondered how long it would be before it would awaken, and slouch, menacing, to the fore. She wondered what would become of them both if and when such a thing happened.
A warning drifted back to her, "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."
Sometimes, the most atrocious forms of hate are spawned from passion, from love.
"He didn't kill her," she told herself aloud. "Even the vaguest of history texts would have mentioned something as important as that."
There is more than one definition of death, dear Rosaline.
"And what," she sighed, her voice quavering slightly, "praytell, is that supposed to mean?"
Oh, nothing much. The truly dead, vampires, ghosts, spirits...it was but a simple reminder to you that there are different sorts of "dead," and you would do good to remember them.
"Ha," she snorted, her eyes rolling skyward. "As though I could forget."
You could. You have.
"What---" Rosaline shut her mouth abruptly as the door to the staffroom creaked open. The brilliant blue robes that slipped in the next moment startled her nearly as much as the noise did. Oh, isn't this utterly corking...
"Ah," Gilderoy Lockhart flashed a blindingly white grin as he took note of her presence, and held himself a little straighter. "Professor Rosebridge, good afternoon."
The History of Magic professor contained a sigh. "Good afternoon, Professor Lockhart." And it would only improve with your absence. Shoo, begone, you foul and waxy creature!
Alas, Lockhart did not obey Rosaline's mental orders. Rather, he busied himself with the coffee pot, adding enough sugar to his cup (the purply one with the words #1 Banshee Banisher! marked on it in large letters---"A gift from a loyal fan!") to weld one's jaw shut. Rosaline fleetingly wondered how he ever managed to keep up the whiteness of his smile, drinking a concoction like that, then decided that some things were best left out of one's imagination.
"So," Lockhart said jovially, slouching down into the chair opposite hers as he took note of her tired slump, "rough night?"
Rosaline narrowed her eyes slightly and stiffened a bit. "You could say that."
"Bad dreams?"
"...of sorts." Bad dreams, indeed. For once, she envied others that affliction; it seemed a so much simpler problem.
"'Of sorts'?" Lockhart scoffed, tossing his head back in a way that reminded Rosaline of an overly dashing swashbuckler in one of the cheap romance novels a few of the fourth-year girls favoured. "Either they were bad dreams or they weren't...dreams."
The History of Magic professor was much too tired to attempt to figure out what Lockhart was on about herself---not that she didn't have her suspicions, and none of them bade well for the direction in which the conversation appeared to be turning. Nervousness and weariness had left her utterly exasperated with the majority of the world; the last thing she needed was to be exposed to the world's most exasperating man, especially if he was getting at what she thought he was getting at. But how could he know? she asked herself. We were alone...weren't we? That deep into the dungeons, how could we not have been?
"What do you mean," she asked him, "precisely?"
Lockhart was quiet for a moment as if debating what to say. Finally, he set his cup aside and leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hands and regarding Rosaline with a look that was not possessed of his usual faux-modesty. "Precisely," he slowly drawled, and reached for one of Rosaline's hands, "I mean that the line between dreams and reality can become very blurred at times. Sometimes the nightmares can seem like fantasies, if one's will is strong enough to make it so."
The History of Magic professor tensed, and pulled her hand free of his grasp. "I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about, Professor Lockhart," she said quickly, her heart speeding up in her chest. Lockhart only smiled his rapscallion smile, his perfect white teeth looking like a shark's to her.
"There's no need to get flustered, my dear, I understand completely."
"Understand what? I---I don't know what you mean," Rosaline insisted, but the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor merely shook his head, his smile unwavering.
"I saw you together," he confessed, no small amount of amusement in the hiss of his voice. "You and Severus, last night, in the dungeons."
Rosaline's heart was now pounding fast as a hummingbird's wings as her eyes darted back and forth, searching for the words that had escaped her. "How...that...that is none of your business, Professor, and I can't believe that you would...would spy on us---"
"I was not spying," Lockhart maintained. "I had merely come down to have a word with Professor Snape, and found the two of you engaged in an...intimate encounter, up against the corridor wall."
Panic flashed through Rosaline's mind. "How..." she murmured, her voice unsteady, "...how much did you see?"
At this, Lockhart tilted his head forward slightly, seriously. "All of it, Professor Rosebridge," he said lowly, confirming her fears. "Or should I say, what there was of it. Your disgust at what you were doing appeared to catch up to you in the nick of time, and I can't say I blame you. After all, why lower your standards, when you could have the best?"
With a frown, Rosaline stood and made her way back over to the table, cup in hand, under the pretense of refilling it. "Professor, I believe you are the victim of a severe misunderstanding."
"Am I?" he asked, his breath hot on her ear, and she jumped---how had he moved to stand so quickly behind her? "Dear Rosaline, I believe it is you who misunderstands. I am offering you what many can only ever dream of."
She shuddered in revulsion, and when she spoke, her voice was hard and slow to leave her lips. "I can assure you, Lockhart," she muttered, spitting his name as though it were a curse, "that what you are offering me, I have never dreamt of."
A low chuckle bounced along the skin of her neck, causing gooseflesh to rise there. "Don't be embarrassed to admit it. If you will have Snape, then you will have me."
She felt his fingertips graze along her arm, and spun around, tongue poised to tell him just how very mistaken he was, when suddenly his lips were on hers in a harsh, graceless kiss. Her hands flew to his chest in alarm, pushing him roughly away from her.
"What the hell are you doing?!" she demanded, wiping the bitter taste of him from her mouth and grimacing. But Lockhart was apparently undeterred; all he did was bestow upon her a pitying smile and shake his head once more.
"Making your dreams come true," he said as though it were obvious, and advanced toward her. She pulled back, but found herself pinned between him and the table. Shakily and hurriedly she dug into the pocket of her robes for her wand, and gasped when he knocked it out of her hand just as quickly as she had extracted it. "No need for magic, Rosaline dear; I want to make certain you know that this is reality."
"Not reality," she said firmly as his head dipped to kiss her again, "but a bloody nightmare!" The last word was punctuated with a sharp cry that was not her own, and a knee that was her own making contact with Lockhart's groin. The blonde man staggered back, clutching himself in agony, shock plain to read on his face. Rosaline moved to retrieve her wand from the corner in which it had landed, but he reached out as she passed him, entrangling his fingers in the fabric of her robes and jerking her back. She was caught off-guard, and they fell to the floor.
"Let go of me!" Rosaline shrieked, struggling as he held her to him, his body still half-curled in pain. She arched back, trying to free her arms from where he had them pinned at her sides. Her feet kicked at his shins, but he somehow managed to avoid the blows.
"Damn it, woman, calm down!" Lockhart ordered, his voice ragged as he twisted, turning over on his side to more easily hold her down.
"No! Stop it! Get off of me!" she shouted, not ceasing her struggles in the least. Rosaline's mind was going a mile a minute, terrible possibilities flashes in front of her eyes one after another of what he might have intended to do her, right there on the staffroom floor, when he flipped over further so that he had her pinned completely, her left arm crushed at a painful angle beneath her. She cried out, trying to squirm her way free as he growled at her to shut up and be still.
Whatever he might have done, he was not going to get a chance to put that intent into practise. The History of Magic professor felt Lockhart's weight suddenly lift off of her, and turned herself just in time to see the blonde man crash over one of the chairs near the fireplace and into the wall face-first.
But---who---?
She scarcely had time to wonder the question when Snape stalked into her line of sight, advancing toward Lockhart with heavy steps and murder in his eyes. With an enraged snarl, he picked the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher up by the front of his robes and threw him once more across the room with an almost inhuman strength. Lockhart had not even finished uttering a pained groan before Snape was upon him again, crouching low and battering at the Lockhart's too-perfect teeth with his fists, over and over, as though he would never tire of it.
"Severus! What is the meaning of this?!"
Snape abruptly stopped his assault on Lockhart's visage, and three heads snapped up to look into the infuriated face of Albus Dumbledore, and the more concerned countenance of Filius Flitwick.
Dumbledore's eyes darted between the three of them, first at the bloodied and bruised Lockhart and wild-eyed Potions master, and then to Rosaline, still on the floor, dishevelled and cradling her left arm with tear stains on her cheeks.
Flitwick scurried immediately to her side. Rosaline thought she saw Snape's head give a slight jerk at the head of Ravenclaw's sudden movement, but she couldn't be sure.
"Are you all right, my dear?" the Charms professor asked, worry in his voice, as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She could only nod numbly, still processing all that had happened. "I'm fine," she mumbled, not taking her gaze off of the two wizards who had yet to move from their place on the floor.
"Professors," Dumbledore said sternly, power ebbing from his body in waves as he spoke. "Explain."
"It---it's not what it looks like, Headmaster," Lockhart croaked out, dabbing at his bleeding upper lip with his fingers while Snape at last moved off of him to stand in front of their employer.
"Is that so, Professor Lockhart?" The old wizard cocked a dubious eyebrow. "I daresay it can't look much worse. Now, would one of you be good enough to explain this current state of affairs?"
No one said a word. Rosaline's throat felt thick as the tension between them all. No more avoiding this, she told herself firmly. Forget about Snape, forget about Lockhart; it is far past time you told him what's going on.
Swallowing roughly, she lowered her eyes. "Headmaster, if I may, I suggest that we move this discussion to your office to avoid any interruptions. There is...much that needs to be said."
Dumbledore squinted slimly at her, though she kept her gaze from meeting his. After a pensive moment of silence, he nodded once in acquiescence. "Yes, Professor Rosebridge. That sounds like a very good idea indeed."
~*~*~*~*~*~
They must have looked like a sight, she realised as she sat with her hands folded in her lap, journeying up to the headmaster's office. It was a good thing that the majority of the students were still in the Great Hall for lunch; gods only knew what sort of rumours would have been flying around the school by the time the bell rang if they had been crowding the corridors.
Lockhart's nose and bottom lip had yet to stop bleeding, and he touched both lightly with his handkerchief every so often, half concealing his red face from view. He had only just finished recounting his version of the staffroom transpirings, and Rosaline did feel the slightest bit sheepish after listening to his point of view---but only the slightest. After all, with him coming on to her a strongly as he was, saying the things he had said, how was she supposed to have known that his grabbing hold of her was only a reflexive action after she'd...er...injured him in the way that she had?
He'd reacted on instinct, he'd said, when he had kept her pinned down. With the struggle and fuss she had been making, he'd said he feared letting her go until he had a chance to explain himself, something he could not do with the state she had been in. In Rosaline's opinion, if calming her had been his intent all along, he certainly could have gone about it better.
Still, he was too embarrassed about the situation for his apology to be insincere, and she had accepted it, knowing that he cared too much about saving his precious face in the public eye to ever go near her with such sordid designs again.
Dumbledore dismissed the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor with orders to see Madam Pomfrey in regards to his wounds, then turned his wary blue gaze on the other three teachers occupying his office. The humour was completely gone from his aged face, and he appeared as some weathered stone statue.
At last, his eyes settled on Snape, whose mind was only partially present for the matter at hand.
"Severus, would you care to enlighten me as to why you felt it necessary to treat Professor Lockhart's face as though it were a steak that needed to be tenderised?"
"I was passing by the staffroom when I heard shouting," the Potions master said quietly, automatically, his voice strangely void of feeling. No contempt, no anger, not even boredom was breathed beneath his words. "I went to investigate it, and found Professors Lockhart and Rosebridge entangled together on the floor. She was obviously struggling against him, and so I thought it best to...intervene."
"That doesn't explain why you continued hitting him."
"No," Snape murmured, his eyes detached and distant. "No, it doesn't."
Fury, his mind softly hissed. A fury so pure I could have drawn sustenance from it and lived an eternity. Seeing him with her, forcing her...I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him.
"Severus," Dumbledore sighed irately, "my patience wears thin. I realise you are not fond of Professor Lockhart---truth be told, the majority of the faculty shares your feelings of him---but that is no reason to fly off the handle as you did. You should have seperated them, demanded an explanation, and I know that under normal circumstances that that is exactly what you would have done. You were looking for an excuse to harm him, and---"
"It wasn't him."
The headmaster paused, and peered curiously at the source of the interruption. Snape, too, seemed to pull free of whatever daze had held him captive long enough to send her a sharp glare, warning her away from the subject he knew she was broaching. Gathering her nerve, Rosaline stared defiantly back at him, though there was something akin to apology in her eyes when she did.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair and heaved a weary sigh. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to elaborate on that thought, Miss Rosebridge."
"I..." Rosaline began, then closed her mouth, suddenly at a loss for words. "That is to say, we---Professor Snape and I---we've been having some...rather out-of-body experiences."
At this, the headmaster leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and frowning in befuddlement. "Go on."
The History of Magic professor breathed a heavy sigh, and felt one of Flitwick's small hands cover one of her own in reassurance. She couldn't bring herself to look at the little wizard, all of the guilt she had been storing up now seeping fully into her consciousness. She hadn't expected it to be this difficult. She'd wanted to tell Dumbledore, had rehearsed what she'd say to him a thousand times in her head---so why was preperation failing her now?
"Possessions," Snape interjected, his voice low. Rosaline turned, startled, to face him, but his attention was focused broodingly on the red carpeted floor. "For the past two and a half months, Professor Rosebridge and myself have been sporadically controlled by entities contained within this school."
For a few long moments, Dumbledore only stared at the Potions master, his gaze flickering over to Rosaline only once. "Possessions," he repeated, a miniscule amount of scepticism leaking into his voice. "You mean to tell me, that since the beginning of term, the two of you have had your bodies taken control of---sporadically---by two spirits unknown?"
"No, sir," Rosaline said meekly, shaking her head. "Not...not unknown. We know who they are."
"Oh? Then it appears you have me at a disadvantage."
"Slytherin and Ravenclaw," Snape confessed with some difficulty, as though he had to force the words from his mouth. "The spirits are those of Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw."
Next to Rosaline, Flitwick uttered a tiny sound of shock. "The founders?" he asked, his bushy white eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline, but his question went unanswered.
"Over two months," Dumbledore said, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this news angered him, "over two months this has been going on, and neither of you breathed a word of it to me? I don't understand---does the relevence of this situation escape you both? Spirits who have strength enough to possess the living are dangerous! Who knows what you might do while under their influence---the incident with Lockhart alone was..." the headmaster trailed off, realisation dawning. His eyes moved once more between them. "...ah. I see it now. The jealous lover. That is why you attacked Lockhart as you did, isn't it, Severus?"
Snape offered him no response, and Dumbledore took his silence as an admission of guilt.
"Slytherin and Ravenclaw," Flitwick echoed, shaking his head. "I would never have thought it possible..."
"Then you thought wrong," the Potions master snapped, rising suddenly from his chair to pace the room like a caged animal. "It is not only possible, it is happening, and we have no way to stop it."
"No way?" Dumbledore eyed the darker man like a hawk. "I assume that by that you mean you have tried everything, which is a lie, as you did not see me about it. Tell me, what is it that you have tried, if you feel you have exhausted every possible way to overcome this."
Snape did not say a word, and Rosaline's response of having been given a sleeping potion by Madam Pomfrey the previous night was all but laughed at.
"That has been the extent of your efforts? Good gracious, it's almost as if neither of you truly want this to stop happening!"
The History of Magic professor averted her gaze to the floor, but Snape was not so eager to admit his strange protectiveness of the spirits that inhabited their bodies by night.
"Headmaster, with all due respect, the solitary reason we haven't tried anything is because we are aware that nothing will work. The strength of these entities is...is beyond our control. Their influence over our minds extends further than the possessions themselves. There is no way other way I can explain it---we just know."
"How far?" Dumbledore asked, and Snape's head jerked slightly in annoyance.
"What?"
"You said that the influence this entities hold over your psyches extends further than the possessions themselves. How far?"
The Potions master's cheeks reddened in embarrassment and simmering rage. This admittance was what he had been dreading most. "...feelings," he spat, as though the word left a sour taste in his mouth. "Some lingering...attraction, I suppose is the word. Sudden bursts of memories that are not of this lifetime."
"What sorts of memories?" enquired Flitwick.
Screams in the dungeons, a rekindling thrill to inflict torture the likes of which I have not felt in over a decade...
"Parts of the castle's construction. Flashes of the school as it was then. Altered surroundings," Severus answered, for he did not dare speak truthfully about the matter in Dumbledore's presence. Out of all of Hogwarts, Dumbledore alone knew the depths which Severus was capable of succumbing to, and he would not take lightly the risk of the Potions master slipping once more into such a severe sadism.
The headmaster looked charily upon the Slytherin head of house, and was about to reply when Rosaline spoke up.
"Excuse me, sir," she interjected quietly, "but I have a question which I myself have not been able to answer."
"Yes?" Dumbledore prompted.
"Why us? Why us, specifically, when there are close to five hundred Ravenclaws and Slytherins occupying the school?"
The old wizard looked thoughtful, and rose from his chair to stand by the window, as if he could read the answer in the glass. "A number of factors, probably," he finally replied. "Your houses, certainly, must have something to do with it. Perhaps your ages, and your stations as teachers here. But above all, spirits tend to possess those whom they see as reflections of themselves. Likely, you and Professor Snape have aspects of Ravenclaw's and Slytherin's personalities, the way they viewed the world, and the sort of people they were."
"But---" Rosaline began to protest, but was cut off by a silencing hand from Dumbledore.
"Even if you do not see these things in yourself, the potential for them must be there, somewhere," he said softly. There was a thoughtful note to his voice, but it was impossible to tell whether he thought good or ill of the implications such a fact contained. "Regardless," he continued, "it is of the utmost importance that you do not dwell on whatever similarities you may possess. You must remember that, a likeness in personalities or not, you and Professor Snape are not the same people as the spirits themselves used to be."
"Well there's certainly no trouble distinguishing that," Snape coolly remarked. "They were lovers, we are not, and I for one wish to keep that difference intact, so can we please get on with discussing how we can force this infernal situation to come to an end?"
Dumbledore frowned at the Potions master, a mixture of concern and slight surprise in his eyes. "Though your sudden eagerness may dictate a need for instant gratification, Severus, I'm afraid honesty will have to take precedence. Precisely how far have these possessions gone?"
For some few moments, silence reigned amidst its court of flushed faces and loathesome reluctance.
~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: A cliffhanger. Well, don't I feel wicked?
Apologies for taking so long with this chapter, but it was a difficult one. The next will be out much more quickly, I promise.
And many thanks to Fidelis Haven, Emily, Dahlia, Dana Ring---oh bugger it, all of my reviewers thus far. You lot make me feel Encouraged and Inspired. :)