The faces were back, the voices. They lurked before his eyes, daring him to touch them, to try and break free of them. Every time he tried, they would close in on him, swooping down like so many maddened vultures. He screamed at them, beat them back with his hands but his fingers passed right through them. Yet he couldn't bring himself to run, to break free of the piercing eyes and the accusing voices.

One face stood out from the rest, and as he watched, it grew itself a head, a body and soon stood a full fleshed man before him. The wild, tangled hair, the intense blue eyes and the terrifying visage.

"Snape," Moody spat, stepping towards him with a sneer on his craggy face. "Slytherin Snape."

"No!" Snape shook his head and stepped back, realizing that his entire body was trembling. "No, go away. Go away, go away! He cleared me, I'm not one that side anymore. Not again, Moody, not again!"

"You want me to show you mercy when you never showed any to the people you killed?" Moody laughed and reached out, grabbing Snape by the hair. "Always a coward. Just like your brother..."

"NO!" Snape jerked himself free and back away. "No!" he screamed again, hunching over and hiding his face in his hands. He could hear the surrounding faces begin their unearthly moans, could feel their breath on his exposed neck. "No!" He heard Moody's insane laughter as he tried to run, but there was no opening, no space for him to flee through. He felt the faces getting closer and closer, heard Moody's footsteps nearing.

"No!"

"Sev!"

"No! Get away from me, no!" Snape struck out in blind desperation at the voice, knowing it would do no good. It never did. So he was surprised when his fist struck something solid, at the cry of pain that met his blow. His eyes flew open, expecting to see the hundreds of dead faces in their haunting circle, to see Moody laughing at him and taunting him with memories best left dead.

Instead he saw a girl leaning over him, a bruise darkening under her right eye, tears of pain spilling over her cheeks. "Sev?"

"Oh God..." Snape blinked and sat up. He lay fully clothed on the bed, an open book by his side. "Oh God." He reached out hesitantly, brushing the edges of the darkening bruise with his cold fingers. It was happening again. "Oh God, Lydia." He dropped his hand and reached out, clutching her to him as he whispered his apologies. "Lydia, Lydia. Oh, God, Lydia." He closed his eyes as he fought off the last whispering screams from his mind. "I'm so sorry, girl. I wasn't- I thought you were- please forgive me."

"It- it's okay," she said, her voice choked. "It's just- you were crying out in your sleep, you started thrashing and I didn't know what else to do. I didn't mean to-" She winced as he touched her cheekbone. "You were having a nightmare."

Snape nodded, still holding her to him. "I didn't know you," he said softly, stroking her long hair. "You weren't you, and the voices kept screaming. I couldn't get them to stop, they just kept screaming until I thought they were going to drive me mad. I thought if I could hit out at them, if I could drive them away I could wake up-" The more he talked, the more the words wanted to pour out. "I had to stop them. If I didn't, if I couldn't wake up then he was going to catch up with me, it would all happen again. I can't let that happen, I can't and I won't." He was aware that he had ceased to make sense and knew that Lydia didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. It didn't matter.

"I won't let him bring me back there, do that to me again," he swore, closing his eyes and mind against the memory. "Everyone else believes me, except him. Even when Dumbledore-" He stopped in midsentence, realizing how close he had come to revealing more than he intended. As far as he knew, no one but Dumbledore and McGonagall knew of his position as ex-Death Eater spy. He had been always careful to keep his left arm hidden or covered so that the grinning Skull would never show its face. He kept its visage from all but the most evil, the most vile, the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. He could not let her see, never let her know. He could not afford to lose her.

Even as he thought it, Snape came to realize for the first time exactly what Lydia meant to him. And how much it hurt not to be able to let the rest of the world know. Too dangerous, he told himself time and time again. Too dangerous for her, too dangerous for the rest of us. If I'm ever found out, there must be no one else for them to target but me. If it is my fault, then let me be the only one to take the blame. Better than one who would be missed.

Then he wondered, would anyone miss him? Dumbledore, perhaps, and maybe even McGonagall. The other teachers would probably breathe their sighs of relief in secret, but the students would surely make to secret of it. He knew some who would openly rejoice to hear that their dour, sadistic Potions Master had gone to the other side of life. He leaned his head so that it was resting on Lydia's soft hair and whispered, "If I were to die tomorrow, would you grieve?"

"Hm?" Lydia's voice was still thick with sleep and pain. When she looked at him, no light of comprehension shone in her eyes and he knew she had not heard him. All for the better.

"Nothing." He stood, leaving her on the bed and walked over to a tall cabinet beside the bed. Snape took out his wand and pointed it at the lock, but did not utter the usual alohomora. Instead, he tapped the lock twice and it fell open. He reached in and selected a bottle of light blue liquid before shutting the doors and returning to the bed.

"Drink this," he said, thrusting the bottle into Lydia's hands. She took it, looking at him with curiosity.

"What did you do to that lock?" she asked as she uncorked the bottle. She took a swallow and made a face. "Ugh, what's in this stuff?"

"You don't want me to tell you." Snape took the bottle back and set it on the bedside table. "As for the lock, I have it attuned to my wand, and only my wand. If you know anyone else who has an eleven inch birch with dragon heartstring, kindly let me know so that I may change my wards." He looked at her in concern. "How's your eye?"

"My eye's fine," Lydia told him. "It's the bruise underneath it that hurts. And that's getting better." She touched it gingerly. Snape wanted to verify her statement, but he was afraid to hurt her again.

"I didn't mean-" he started softly, but she interrupted him with a shake of her head.

"I know. It looked like a pretty nasty nightmare. What was it about, anyway?"

Snape looked away. "I don't know." The faces, the voices...

He could feel her skeptical look without turning around. "It was a pretty violent reaction to not remember."

"I don't remember anything. It was just a dream." Blocking him in on all sides, cornering him until he came. Knowing it was only a matter of time...

The dream had been a recurring one, but he hadn't had it since about four months ago. It was the same thing every time, the voices and faces would block him in, denying him a way out until Moody appeared. The same way, night after night. It never changed.

Lydia hugged him tightly, unaware of the dark thoughts and worries in his head. "Just as long as you're okay now." He smiled and wrapped his thin arms around her, holding her close to his chest.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. "Je ne vous mérite pas, belle fille."

He felt her shift in his grip. "Where did you learn that?" she asked, her voice sleepy. "I remember when you spoke back in the Hospital Wing." She either ignored or didn't notice his sudden wince at the reminder of that night. "V'là l' bon vent, ma amour m'attend," she remembered. "The Wind Song."

"You're not the only one here who is bilingual, Miss Johnson," Snape told her. "Though some may think it odd and unfitting that I should have chosen the language of romance." He settled back into the pillows, still holding her in his arms. "Only I always thought the line was: V'là l' bon vent, ma mie m'attend."

"Well." He could feel her shrug. "It is. But my mother always taught it to me as 'my love.'"

"She was the one who taught it to me, as well." Snape sighed, brushing back a strand of his hair. "She loved French, you know. Always said she was going to move there as soon as she got old enough. Which she did, but not in the way she dreamed she would. Not in the middle of the year, torn from the only life she had ever known."

"You never told me why she left," Lydia murmured. "Neither did she. What's the big secret?"

"It's a story for another time." Snape's voice was firm. "Not now." His voice softened. "Either way, she loved the language and taught it to me as well. I would have done anything she wanted, and willingly. She was like no one else I'd ever met, your mother."

"Mm."

"Your silence disturbs me. You're never this quiet unless you're scheming up something that is undoubtedly going to give me a headache."

"Are you always such a prick?"

"Only when I need to be."

"Always," she confirmed. "Tell me about her."

"I have."

"Not enough. Every time I ask, people tell me what a wonderful person she was. They never tell me about her."

"Take everything you know about me, every piece of my personality-"

"Mhm..."

"Now reverse it and you more or less get your mother."

"Sev!" He chuckled as she hit him on the shoulder.

"What do you want to know?" He loved the way she felt curled up in his arms, like a giant, long haired cat.

"Anything."

"She was a nice girl."

"SEV!"

He laughed again as she glared at him. "If you're going to be vague, then I am as well. If you want specifics, you must start with them."

"What did the other students think about her?"

Snape thought a moment. "It's hard to say. I had few dealings with any student outside my house save her, and most of those were on the loosest terms imaginable. If I had to guess, I'd say she was well liked by all. The only fault some may have seen in her was that she was a Ravenclaw."

"What's wrong with being a Ravenclaw?"

"Slytherins hold a grudge against anyone not in their House," he reminded her.

"Oh yeah. Um...what about you? Why did you love her?"

Snape stopped breathing for a moment. Why did she ask that? "Because-" He paused, searching for the right words. "Because she was the only person who ever treated me like I was a human, a person like her." He half expected to hear the words that he had heard so many times before he had graduated. You are nothing like her. "Because she was beautiful. Because she was caring and sensitive in ways I could never understand." Because she was everything people adored and respected, and nothing that I could ever be.

"Oh." A pause. "Then why do you say I'm so much like her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone says I take after my father. And I'm not beautiful."

It was true, really. She had gained more of her father than her mother. Her nose was a little too flat and her eyes were just slightly too far spaced for beauty. The only thing she had inherited from her mother was her black hair and dark irises.

"Because there's more to it than that."

"Sev?"

"Yes?"

"What was your nightmare about? And don't tell me nothing. I know you better than that by now."

"Nothing." Was he trying to be difficult? Or was he trying to tell her that there was something wrong, something terribly wrong? Maybe it was just that he had been lying for so long that he had forgotten how to stop. "I don't remember." He glared at her as she opened her mouth to protest. "Change the subject. Now."

"Fine." She grumbled for a few moments more, then settled back into his arms. Each time he breathed he could feel her warm and heavy against his chest. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

She made a face. "You know. Tell me about yourself. I hardly know anything about you."

"There's a reason for that."

"Don't be a prick. What about your family? Where are they?"

"My father left when I was still in school. Last I knew, he was dead. My mother died of old age about five years ago. I had an older brother, no sisters."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"There was a reason for that, too."

She hit him. "Tell me about him."

"He died. More to the point, he was killed. It was by a man named Alastor." Even as he said the name Snape shuddered in remembrance. How close he had come to the same fate...

"That's terrible! Why didn't anyone do anything about it?"

Snape shrugged. "He wasn't missed. Besides, there was nothing I could have done. Next question." His tone left no room for argument.

"So they're all dead."

"Yes."

"Were they all in Slytherin House too?"

"Yes. Every Snape who has come to this school was."

"I thought Slytherins became Death Eaters."

Snape felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "No," he said, his mouth suddenly dry. "Not all of them. Does every Gryffindor become an Auror?"

"I guess not...I hadn't thought about it that way." She must have sensed that she was on dangerous ground, because this time she changed the subject without prompting. "The year's gone by fast, hasn't it?" No, it had gone by as slowly as all the rest. Every year the summer holidays grew farther and farther away. But this year he had a distraction, at least.

"What are you going to do once the term ends? Where will you go?"

He felt her tense and held his breath. This was the first time he had brought up the future after the end of term. It was also the first time he had made any references to her parent's death.

"I don't know." To his immense relief, her voice was normal, if a bit shaky. Even that steadied as she continued. "They left me a lot of money, but the house is still in France. I don't think I'll be moving back there."

"What about next term?"

"I'll be coming back here, of course."

"How does that work, with both your parents dead and no legal guardian?"

She looked at him strangely. "I'm eighteen," she said as she looked up. "I thought you knew."

"No. How does that work? You're only in fifth year."

She lay back down. "When I moved to France I had to take a year off from school because of my parents' jobs. Then Beauxbatons wanted me to take a year over to make up what I had missed. Then I came back here as a Fifth Year. That makes me eighteen." She gave him another look. "You don't think I would have let you do that if I had been underage, do you? I'm not eager to see you lose your job or be called up on rape charges."

"Perhaps." Snape blinked as he took in the new information. "Perhaps if you had told me, I wouldn't have been so...precautious." Still, consorting with a student of any age was frowned upon by the school at best. "It is a comforting thought, however."

"Yeah, isn't it?" Lydia wiggled in his arms, trying to make herself more comfortable. "Sev?"

"Yes?"

There was a long pause. Then: "How much of the reason you want to be with me is because of who I am, and how much is because I remind you of my mother?"

Snape froze while his mind raced. Oh Merlin, where had that come from? And how in the name of hell was he supposed to answer it? His first reaction was to lie and tell her that Julia had nothing to do with it. But then he thought of how hard it must have been for her to ask that question. She at least deserved an honest answer.

"When I first saw you, all I could remember was Julia," he said carefully. "I hadn't forgotten about her even after all these years." And he never would. "But then as I got to know you more, I realized how much you were both like and unlike her. I saw much of your father in you, and I admit that was more of a shock than you can imagine. So now I know that I care for you as you, but when I look at you, I still see your mother sometimes."

"Oh." She seemed to mull that over in her mind for a while. "That's not exactly what I wanted to hear."

"You did ask," he pointed out rather defensively.

"I did." They said nothing for a long while. Finally, she bounced up from his arms and planted a kiss on the bridge of his nose. "Either way, I'm glad you're here. And I still love you either way." She leaned back and grinned, but then her face turned serious. "What's wrong? What did I say?"

Snape blinked and ran her words again through his mind. He cleared his throat carefully and swallowed once. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm glad you're-"

"After that."

"That I loved you no matter what."

"And do you mean that?"

"Oh, Sev, of course I do! You don't think I'd lie about something like that, do you?"

"It's hard to say." He sat in stunned silence for a few moments.

"Are you mad?"

"No." He thought about that, and shook his head. "No," he said again. "I'm not mad." He kissed her gently and squeezed her hand. "I'm not mad. Just surprised. It's been a long while since anyone's said that to me."

"I'm glad I could be the one who did." Lydia stretched and grinned at him. "So now that that's all cleared up and settled, now what?"

"Now you get up so that I may regain the feeling back into my extremities," Snape told her and unceremoniously dumped her over the side of the bed. He stood, wincing as the blood rushed back into his legs. Lydia stuck her tongue out at him from the floor. Then, with a hop and a skip, she went over to inspect his bookcase. Snape followed behind her.

"Gah, don't you have anything interesting to read?" she asked, scanning the titles printed on the leather spines. "All you have is poetry and old history."

"You could deal with a little refresher in history, according to Professor Binns," Snape said dryly.

"Boring old class," she said and moved on. "What's this?" Her hand fell on a particularly slender book. She pulled it out. It was bound in soft black leather and tied closed with a leather strap. Try as she might, she could not get the knot out.

"Nothing." Snape reached out quickly and plucked the book from her hands. He placed it carefully under his arm and selected a smaller, dusty tome. "Try this."

"A Collection of Poems by John Donne," she read out loud. "Sounds wonderfully boring."

"Try it, you may be surprised."

She let it fall open to a page in the middle. "Holy Sonnet: 10," she read. Her brow furrowed in concentration. "Death be not proud, though some have called thee/Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so." She made a face. "Sounds cheerful."

"It is, actually." Snape took the book from her hands and continued to read. "For those whom thou think'st thou doth overthrow/Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me."2 He handed the book back to her. "It's about the joy of the rest that comes with the end of life, and how Death itself is nothing but a servant and a pawn if man does not let it become something more. It's what I always wanted as my epitaph."

"Ugh, let's not talk about that." Lydia shuddered.

"It's going to happen sooner or later," Snape told her wisely. "May as well face the inevitable."

"I don't want to think about either of us dying," she stated firmly. "I don't like that thought."

"You need to read the rest of that poem," he said. "Understand what Donne is saying. Keep the book," he told her as she moved to replace it on the shelf. "He's very good. You may even find you like him."

"Right. A man who writes about accepting death." Still, she held onto the book. "So what was in that first one I picked up?"

"Nothing."

"Don't start that with me."

"Fine. It's none of your business." He prayed she would leave it at that. No such luck.

"C'mon, tell me!" She grabbed at the slender book, but he evaded her grasp.

"Don't do that."

She reached for it again but he moved his arm to block her so instead she ended up clutching the sleeve of his robe. Too late he realized his mistake and hastily drew back, but her grip was too strong. The motion only succeeded in drawing the sleeve up over his forearm, baring the skin from wrist to elbow. The Dark Mark on his arm showed up in painful contrast against his white skin.

Merlin be damned! he thought viciously as he yanked his sleeve back down over the hideous skull. He looked up at Lydia's face and felt his heart plummet.

She stared at him with a mixed expression of horror and hatred. He reached out to her, knowing it wouldn't do any good. "Lydia, please-"

"Don't," she whispered, her voice strangled. "Don't! Don't touch me! How could you?" she demanded, her voice shrill. "You monster! How could you make me believe- evil!" She backed up slowly towards the door. "I-" She didn't even finish her sentence before turning and running out the door, slamming it behind her. Snape remained behind, staring at the mocking wood and iron, the pain of a thousand Cruciatus curses in his eyes, his arm hanging limp and lifeless at his side.

Monster, murderer, killer, evil, dark creature-

It had been months since Lydia had run from the news of her parent's death, and now she was running from it again. Only this time, Snape would not be the one she would run into. He was the one she was running from.

When she had first seen it, she had not registered the shape of the black lines burned into his arm. As she looked closer, she saw the grin, the snake, the skull. It all clicked together right as he had pulled his sleeve back down until she couldn't deny what she had seen.

The Dark Mark. The symbol of Voldemort, the Death Eaters. The ones who had killed her parents.

Hot stinging tears blurred her vision but she refused to let them fall. All she could think of was getting far, far away from that man, from him and all that he stood for. She realized in some distant corner of her mind that she was headed in the direction of Dumbledore's office, but for the most part let her feet guide her instead of her mind. In spite of all, she ended up facing the stone Gargoyle right as it swung open, admitting the huge, hairy form of Hagrid.

"Can't go in there-" He started to stop her, but she darted right past his arm and into the waiting opening. She raced up the stairs and burst into Dumbledore's office.

"Professor-" she gasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Professor, I need to talk to you. Snape- his arm- the Dark Mark- my parents-" She stopped short as she realized the Headmaster was not alone. McGonagall and a strange man sat with him and she belatedly recalled Hagrid's warning not to enter.

"Miss Johnson." Dumbledore wasn't smiling. "If you would wait outside one moment?"

"Yessir." She ducked out, her face in flames. Muffled voices floated through the door and before too long, McGonagall and the strange man walked out.

"Remember what I said to you, Albus," the man said. The first thing Lydia noticed about him was his wild blue eyes. Well, his one blue eye and the second, huge glass thing that rolled over and over in his right socket. "If he hurt that girl-" he pointed, and Lydia suddenly remembered the fading bruise on her cheek. "He might still prove me right after all these years."

"I'll keep that in mind, Alastor." Dumbledore motioned to Lydia. "You may come in now."

Lydia stepped inside and took a seat.

"I believe you wanted to talk to me about Severus?" Dumbledore looked at her seriously. There was no trace of a sparkle in his blue eyes.

"Um- yes." Oh God. How was she supposed to start when Dumbledore didn't even know that they were having a relationship? What would the consequences of that be? She reminded herself that she didn't care about Snape anymore, and that consorting with a student would probably be the least of his worries. Still, it was hard to say it.

"I-" She trailed off again, searching for a place to start. "He's a Death Eater," she finally blurted out. It was better to just say it straight and worry about the details later. "I saw the Dark Mark on his arm tonight."

"I know."

Lydia stopped and stared at the Headmaster, her mouth half open. She shut it with a snap. "You know?"

"Of course. I knew that when I hired him."

"You knew?" Lydia suddenly realized how stupid this all must seem. Of course he knew. How could the Headmaster of the school possibly not know that one of his staff was one of the most feared people in all of history? She blushed as she realized how badly she had handled the entire situation. Still, there remained the question of why, and how.

Dumbledore looked at her levelly. "I will assume you just found this out now," he said. "And I take it as well that you did not remain behind long enough to ask for an explanation. Not that I blame you," he went on, "I don't know anyone who would have. Still, you may have found it enlightening." He rested his chin on his fingertips. "Let me tell you about Professor Snape."

Lydia nodded dumbly, too taken by surprise to do much else.

"Severus was a student here year ago," Dumbledore began. "I remember him mostly as a quiet young man, remarkably intelligent, though he kept to himself. The other students found him rather...distasteful and avoided him for the most part. He continued on through the years in a similar manner, though he excelled in his classes. If you asked most people, they would tell you he was rude, brusque, irritable and downright nasty. It was no surprise that he was Sorted into Slytherin, and even less of one when it was found that he had become a Death Eater.

"Some years later, Snape returned to me. Whether he meant to or no, he turned himself in to the Ministry who made him a spy. I assigned him back to Hogwarts as a teacher. For though many others would disagree, I remembered Snape as the same boy who came here years ago, who had a sharper mind than any other student yet was looked down on by all. I thought I knew what that boy was and what he could still be if given the chance."

"But how can you trust him?" Lydia cried out. She clamped her lips down immediately, cursing her slip.

Dumbledore continued to aim that evaluating look at her. "He's been here for over ten years," he explained. "In that past decade he has proven himself not only loyal, but with a desire for redemption. He has returned time and time again to the ranks of the Death Eaters at great personal risk. He has suffered through the pain of the Cruciatus more times than any of us could count, and all without hope of personal gain." Dumbledore's eyes grew distant. "I know that boy was good once, and I believed he could be so again. For now, it seems as if though I was correct."

Lydia sat in the thickening silence, turning her thoughts over in her mind. It was all too much for her to take in, Snape a Death Eater, part of the membership that had killed her parents. Yet Dumbledore trusted him, shouldn't that be enough for her?

"I don't expect you to understand," Dumbledore continued. "Not yet, at least. Perhaps after you have come to know him better..." His blue eyes narrowed. "And perhaps not. We shall see." His eyes softened as he leaned forward over his desk. "Severus is a good man, Miss Johnson. He is no different now than the man you knew two hours, two days, two months ago. Voldemort ruined his life once already, don't let that happen twice. And losing your trust would do that, I assure you. It would ruin him."

Lydia felt her stomach go cold. He knew, Dumbledore knew! But how? Severus surely hadn't told him. She felt like swearing. First Sarrington, now Dumbledore. Did the whole bloody school know? She shook her head, frustrated.

"I guess...I guess I was being a bit of an idiot to have gone all goose-girl like that," she admitted slowly. What Dumbledore said made sense, but... "But..."

"Think about it, Miss Johnson. That's all I ask."

"I can do that, I guess," Lydia said. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"That man who just left, you called him Alastor?"

"Yes, I did."

"Sev- Professor Snape mentioned his name once. Something about his brother?"

Dumbledore looked at her gravely. "Alastor Moody was the man who killed his brother."

"Oh." Lydia felt herself at a loss for words. "So does that mean- was his brother a Death Eater too? Does that make- Moody- an Auror?"

"I think, Miss Johnson, that is a matter you must discuss with Professor Snape himself. Think about what I told you, but try not to be too long about it. I fear the consequences if you should. And Miss Johnson?"

"Yessir?"

"If you do decide to reconcile with Severus, I wish to see the both of you as soon as possible."

"Yessir." Lydia nodded awkwardly and ducked out of the office. As she headed back to the Ravenclaw Tower, she mulled Dumbledore's words over in her mind and shivered.

Losing your trust would ruin him.

How could he know, she thought crossly, trying to quiet the nagging voice that told her Dumbledore knew more than she could ever guess. It's not like he was there. It's not as if he has the slightest idea what's going on. Or did he? His words back in the office certainly made it seem as if he did. Still, Lydia was in no mood to listen. The pain of her parents' death had returned hundred fold at the sight of the grinning skull and she wanted to harbor the pain against something. Someone. And it looked as if that someone might just be Snape...

She dreaded to think of Potions class tomorrow.

Lydia slipped into the dungeons quickly and quietly, sliding into her seat beside Thomas.

"Merlin's beard, Lyd, what happened?"

"Nothing." She knew she must look a sight. Her eyes were dry and red, ringed with sleep. Her hair was out of her usual braid and hung in strands over her shoulders. The bruise she had garnered last night had faded, thanks in no small part to Snape's potion, but it still showed darkly against her skin.

"Nothing," she said again. Now was neither the time nor the place to discuss matters even if she had wanted to. Which she didn't.

"Right," Thomas snorted. "And I was moved to House Hufflepuff last night. Give me a break, Lydia. Something happened."

"I don't want to talk about it, alright?" she snapped, glaring at her friend. A few students turned to stare, but she paid them no mind. "Honestly, Thomas. You just don't know when to stop pushing, do you? Take a bloody hint and bugger off!"

Thomas stared at her, wide-eyed. Then he scowled and turned away. "Fine," he spat as he gathered up his books. "I'm sorry I even bothered." He moved two desks down to sit beside Marissa Hain. Lydia scowled after him. Just then Snape entered and her mind was taken up completely.

He avoided looking directly at her as he read down the call sheet. He didn't look too much better than she did; if anything, he looked worse even without a bruise on his cheek. Lydia noticed how his fingers trembled as he held the parchment, the flicking of his dark eyes. When he put the list down, she saw that his fists were clenched with the effort of- something. She couldn't tell what. She tried to tell herself she didn't care.

It didn't work.

Class that day was sheer torture as she and Snape danced around each the entire time, trying to avoid contact of any sort. Thomas didn't make matters any better; more than once Lydia would catch glimpse of him sending a nasty look her way and whispering with some of the other students. She felt a cold lump settle in the pit of her stomach.

He wouldn't, oh God, he couldn't!

She grit her teeth and turned her attentions back to her bubbling cauldron. She prayed that Thomas, no matter how angry or upset, would understand exactly why he couldn't tell anyone about her and Snape. Or, what had been her and Snape. Letting the secret out to the entire school meant dire consequences not only for her, but for Snape as well. He could be fired, or worse. It went beyond simple backbiting or spreading nasty rumours. This involved too many people, with too dire consequences. Surely he understood that!

"Not that there's much of a rumour to spread anymore," she muttered as she chopped up dried slug with more aggression that was strictly necessary. "And why should I even care anymore? Someone like him was never meant to be hired in the first place."

"Huh? Lydia, were you saying something?" Taylor asked as she tipped spider legs into her cauldron

"No." Lydia kept her attentions focused on the slugs.

"What were you so mad at Thomas for, anyway? It sounded pretty vicious. He looks pissed."

"I don't want to talk about it." Lydia was half afraid that Taylor was going to continue to press for details, but apparently she had learned her lesson from the telling off Lydia had given Thomas and dropped it.

"I have your corrected tests from last week," Snape announced, a sheaf of parchment clutched in his thin fingers. "I don't know why I continue to hold out hope for any of you," he said scathingly, "because it is obvious you will never understand what I have to teach. I don't know why I even bother anymore." He began handing back the tests with caustic comments for each student.

"I believe I would enjoy seeing the effects of the potion you described here, Miss Hain, although I doubt you would."

"Try not to let your stupidity show so much, Mr. Ritus. It's disheartening to know that one of your grade has made it into my House."

"Did you even make an attempt at studying, Mr. Applegate? Because it certainly isn't evident here if you did."

"Miss Johnson."

Snape handed the parchment to her without a word more and continued on down the line.

"Adequate, Mr. Wilcot, but only barely. At least try to use the common sense you were born with."

Lydia glanced at the grade on her paper while Taylor glanced over her shoulder and whistled.

"Eighty four percent," she said admiringly. She looked wistfully at her own fifty seven. "No wonder he didn't say anything to you. I think that's one of the highest scores in the class."

There was more to it than that, much more, but Lydia didn't have the energy to go into it just then. She folded up her test and moved to shove it into her bag, but a tiny slip of parchment fell from the sheets and fluttered to the ground. She reached down to pick it up.

As she unfolded it, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Snape's thin, angular writing stood out on the faded parchment.

"They flee from me, that sometime did me seek,

With naked foot stalking in my chamber.

I have seen them gentle, tame and meek,

That now are wild and do not remember

That sometime they put themselves in danger

To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

Busily seeking with a continual change."

Lydia glanced up, but no one else had noticed. Snape was busy at his desk. She read on.

"Donnez-moi une chance. J'ai besoin de vous. Je vous prie." Give me a chance. I need you. I am begging you.

Lydia swallowed the lump in her throat as she read and reread the lines on the parchment. She tried to harden her heart, strengthen her resolve, but it wasn't easy.

Losing your trust would ruin him.

She looked up again and this time saw him looking at her, a strange light in his eyes. She glanced from him to the paper, then back to his face. Emotions warred as she tried to make sense of it all, of anything.

I need you. I am begging you.

Voldemort ruined his life once already. Don't let it happen twice.

Your parents are dead. It was the Death Eaters.

She clenched her fist around the paper, crumpling it up into a ball as she grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, and ran from the room without looking back.

Snape almost cried out from the sheer pain as his heart broke. The door slammed shut behind her, the noise echoing through the corridors like the sound of the sealing of a tomb. His tomb.

He stared at his desk, eyes hot and dry. He had seen her read the paper, seen the look she had given him when she thought he wasn't looking. He had hoped up until that last moment that she could forgive him, that she would understand, but then she had crumpled the paper and fled, leaving him alone in a class full of students, his heart shattered like a crystal phial.

The remainder of the class passed in a blur, during which he barely registered the usual sounds of squabbling and fighting that inevitably broke out when Slytherins were placed in a room with any other House. Snape barely even looked up as they filed past him at the end of class, he was so wrapped up in his own pain that he never took a single point from any student. His odd behavior would be noticed, but he didn't care. He just wanted her back.

As the last student filed out, the heavy door shutting itself behind him, Snape made his way into his inner chambers. He selected a green and silver chair and sat down, his head spinning with want and pain. He took out his wand, the eleven inches of smooth, flawless birch and turned it over and over in his hands, watching the firelight reflect off the smooth wood.

He wanted her back. God, he wanted her back.

Would it work, the Killing Curse? Would it work if the caster set it on himself? Snape pointed the tip of his wand at his own heart and mouthed the words, but could not bring himself to say them out loud. Avada Kedavra. It was so simple.

He put the wand away and sighed, leaning back into the chair's cold embrace. He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and spark with a cheeriness that mocked his hardened want. Snape pulled his left sleeve up over his elbow and stared at his forearm. He cursed the day he had ever let that damning mark touch his skin, but it was too late now for regrets. It had been too late long ago.

Something hard and pointed jabbed him in the ribs. Frowning, he reached into his robes and pulled out a slender book bound in black leather. The book that had caused this whole mess in the first place. He thought for a moment of casting it into the fire, but found he could not bear to part with it. He needed it still, needed it and what it gave him. His fingertips traced the soft leather before he placed it back in his robes, fingertips that remembered a similar softness, the satin smooth that was her skin.

Oh God, he hurt.

She was the first thing he had cared about in too many years, losing her now was more than he could bear. The rooms that had seemed adequate just months before now echoed with emptiness and rang with a silence that lacked her laughter. He had let himself go too far, done what he swore he would never do. He had cared too much.

Maybe it was because it had been so long since he remembered what feelings of anything but anger had felt like. Maybe the intoxication of emotion had overwhelmed him like good wine on a hot day, driving him beyond the boundaries of sense and into the realm where he now sat, only now he was left broken and bleeding, cast onto the hard sand that once meant sanctuary.

The minutes ticked by into hours, and the fire burned down to embers but Snape made no move to create a light. He sat in the semi-darkness, neither moving nor seeing, just staring emptily into the glowing coals. He tried to keep himself from the hope that he knew would only hurt him more in the end, but he couldn't help himself. Every nerve in his body was as taunt as a harp string; at every creak and moan of the castle walls he would tense up and flick his gaze towards the door, half expecting to see her there. He never did.

"We are born in another's pain, and perish in our own," he recited quietly to himself as he stared at the dying embers. "How true."

Without another word, Snape removed the slim, black book from his robes again and placed it on the table. Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, he took out a quill and scribed a brief note on a scrap of parchment and slipped it beneath the straps that held it closed. He stood and rummaged through a trunk at the foot of his bed until he came up with a shimmering armful of liquid fabric. He shook out the cloak, musty and wrinkled from disuse, but the creases slid out of the demiguise hair as smoothly as they would water.

Snape shuddered in revulsion as he pulled the invisibility cloak around his shoulders and fastened the clasp at his throat. The last time he had put this on, it was to go Muggle hunting with Lucius...

No time for that now. He had to hurry, time was now both his enemy and his friend. The book was slipped back into his robes as he stole out of his chambers and into the dungeon proper. Silently, he swept up the stairs, pausing only a moment as he listened to make certain no one was watching. Then he crossed the hallway with a speed a centaur would envy and made his way to the Ravenclaw Tower.

Luck was with him; just as he made it to the top of the stairs, a Ravenclaw sixth year was whispering the password to the portrait door. Snape ducked inside behind her right as the painting swung shut behind him. He paused to orient himself, then headed for where he knew Lydia slept. More cautious than ever, now, Snape slipped inside and picked his way carefully between the beds, trying not to disrupt the sleeping occupants. He found Lydia's bed with relative ease, remembering it from the last time he had been there. A lump grew in his throat as he remembered the night and the nights that had followed, nights that he knew would never be possible again.

Lydia deeply asleep and barely even moved as he leaned over her. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he brushed his lips against her forehead, mindful of the tears that had leaked from his eyes. "Mon amour," he whispered, a mere thread of sound. He placed the book on the table beside her bed and after a moment's hesitation, set his wand down beside it.

"Maintenez-moi sûr." Keep me safe.

With one final glance behind his shoulder, Snape took himself out.

On his way back to his chambers, Snape clenched his hands into fists, fingers digging into the skin with the effort of keeping himself from going back. It wouldn't change anything, but every part of him, from head to heart tried to get him to go back.

Back in his own bedroom, all he wanted to do was collapse in a chair and weep. But there would be time enough for that later. Now there was business to attend to. He strode over to the large cabinet that stood against the far wall beside his bed and moved to unlock it, then cursed as he realized he had left his wand with Lydia. He didn't dare cast the accio spell; for one thing, Merlin only knew who would be awake to see the Potion Master's wand rise from the Ravenclaw dorms to go speeding through the castle in the dead of night. And for another: wands couldn't very well travel through stone walls and magicked paintings; there was no way it would be able to make its way from there to here without difficulty.

But there was another way in, without the wand. Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, Snape reached into the collar of his robes and pulled out a small steel key. There was a lock on the cabinet somewhere....yes, there it was. A lock magicked against magic, of all things. And a key to match. No one could get in unless they had the proper key, and no one but Snape possessed that.

As the key clicked into the lock, the doors opened to reveal row after row of small, unlabeled bottles. Crammed into this cabinet were some of the most deadly potions known to man, making it the single most dangerous item in the entire Hogwarts castle. Not even Fluffy the three headed dog could compare to the death these tiny bottles could bring. And that was why Snape guarded its secrets so carefully.

He reached out, noting how his white fingers trembled. They hovered like uncertain spiders over a selection of juicy flies, but the blood of these flies would burn in the veins like heated stone. In the wild, a creature's natural defense was color- those of the bright, vibrant hue screamed of danger, of death by poison or venom. Not so with these bottles. Snape selected a tiny vial of pale blue-gray, turning it over and over in his hands. It was unlabeled- all of them were. If someone didn't know what the bottle contained without them, then they had no right to be in the cabinet in the first place.

But Snape knew. He knew by sight, by smell and by taste each and every potion in both his office and his private stores, right down to the smallest phial. He didn't need labels to understand the art to which he had devoted his very life. He didn't need labels to know that what he held in his hand was potent enough to kill every student and teacher in Hogwarts.

Tonight, however, he was not aiming for a massacre of such a grand scale. No, tonight his goal was nothing but a speck compared to the grand schemes he had partaken in during his days as a Death Eater. He had often wondered, especially in his early days of despair back in Azkaban, what it would be like to take one of his own potions, to feel the effects of his own creation burning through his veins.

Tonight, he would have his chance to find out.

The glass phial was cold even against his bloodless skin. The potion itself was icy as it slid down his throat, the taste not unpleasant. There were worse ways to die, he thought to himself as he let the phial slip from his fingers to land on the stone floor and roll away to some forgotten corner of the room. At the hand of a stranger, a murderer, an unnamed face, a shadow. An Auror.

A gray veil slid over his eyes, creeping in at the edges of his vision. The fire danced in cinque-a-pace, filling the room with kaleidoscope color. The potion's coldness began to spread as it consumed the feelings in first his arms, then hands. He knew in time it would take over his chest and ultimately his heart, quelling the steady beat. A fitting way to die, alone in the cold. Better than at the end of a wand, or worse- at the feet of a madman whose very name meant death.

But potions- potions were something else, another matter entirely. Potions were his life, his reason for being. The crystal phials neither judged nor accused, and with the proper guidance would help a man accomplish anything. If they could not give a man his one desire, then they could help to at least carry the mind away from the pain, the sadness, the misery. Potions had carried him to the heights he stood at now, had been there every step that had brought him closer to Voldemort and helped him to see clearly his folly and his salvation. Now, having failed in all things, cold, empty and drowning in a desolation he would have though impossible, Snape turned to his potions one final time.

Alone in his chambers, in the dying light of a once-cheerful fire, Severus Snape closed his eyes and prepared himself to die.