Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
Chapter 6
Another week of the term was almost over. Annwyd Gwir had just finished teaching her Thursday class of fourth year students and she was looking forward to lunch with Professor Lupin. His class, however, didn't end for another hour, and there was a stack of work on her desk that she needed to attend to.
She preferred to take most of her meals in private, either alone in her rooms or with one or two other teachers. Dumbledore seemed to find this disappointing. He obviously liked the camaraderie of the Great Hall and he would have been pleased, she thought, had she joined the rest of the staff at the high table more often. But she still found it hard to be comfortable in the presence of so many people, and when she forced herself to attend a meal in the Hall—as she did once or twice a week, for the sake of appearances—she rarely ate more than a few bites. Thankfully, the headmaster hadn't pushed the issue.
As she reached the bottom of the staircase that led to her office, she immediately saw Professor Snape rounding the corner, most likely returning from a visit to the Slytherin common room or dormitories, which were also located in the dungeons.
"Professor Snape," she acknowledged him as their paths brought them closer together.
"Instructor," he nodded stiffly in return.
Her office and his, as well as the Potions classroom, opened onto a small anteroom behind the door at the end of the corridor. Snape was clearly headed that way, just as she was.
When they reached the door, Snape opened it and stood well out of the way, allowing her to precede him into the room. He waited until she was well inside before following. She found herself irked, as she often was, by his overly elaborate formality. It wasn't that she had anything against having a door held open for her, not under normal circumstances. But with Snape, she had developed the distinct impression that the gesture was not inspired by courtesy so much as it was intended to ensure that he didn't touch her. His movements seemed calculated to prevent any accidental brushing of a hand or shoulder that might otherwise have occurred.
He was the same in all his interactions with her. One would think that two people who worked together, saw each other on a daily basis, and shared adjoining offices might just occasionally bump elbows in the hallway, but it never happened. If he had to hand her a quill or a sheet of parchment, it was always done in such a way that precluded any possibility of their fingers meeting even for an instant.
Snape disappeared into his office without another word. She sighed as she went through her own door and sat down at her desk. The man's extremely reserved notions of personal space would have probably gone unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that she'd been pointedly waiting for just such an accidental brush of skin.
It was all because of that stupid protection spell he had cast on her door. He'd had to touch her to set the wards, and she'd been emotional and vulnerable at the moment, and no one had touched her at all for a long time. So somehow that short and totally insignificant moment of contact had settled into her psyche as if it meant something. In spite of her best efforts to see it as the ridiculous fluke it surely must have been, her mind had insisted on stubbornly replaying the incident long after it had happened.
While she was waiting for this foolishness to pass, she had decided to pay special attention the next time there was any physical contact between herself and Snape. She was certain—well, almost certain, anyway—that it would be unremarkable when it happened, and then her body could finally accept what her mind had been trying to tell it, namely, that any unusual feeling had come from the spell and not from the Potions Master per se.
All of which would have been well and good, except that there had never been a next time. Unless she were to do something terribly obvious—like pretending to trip and throwing herself into him, which she simply couldn't muster the nerve to do—he was making it impossible for her to arrange any "accidental" contact. His very presence seemed to preclude such an attempt. There was something around him which wasn't quite a glamour of deflection but which served that purpose equally well, some force of will that repelled interaction and frustrated her efforts to read the subtle energies.
In short, her plan for disarming the disturbing memory of his hand covering hers had completely backfired. Replacing that flash of heat with a mundane little bump of fingers or elbows might have done the trick quite nicely, but having found herself unable to sense anything of his feelings and unable touch him in even the smallest way was having just the opposite effect. The more she couldn't do it, the more she wanted to.
I am thinking about this far too much.
She forced her attention to the pile of student work in front of her. The scrolls were in a mess with third, fourth, and fifth year students all mixed together. She shook her head at her own habitual disorganization and began sorting them into neat piles. From the next room, she could hear the faint scratching of a quill. Probably Snape writing something outlandishly derogatory on one of poor Neville Longbottom's assignments.
After a few moments, the scratching ceased. There was a brief silence, then the scraping of a chair, followed by footsteps and the click of a door opening and closing. Apparently Snape had finished whatever business he had in his office. The air in the room seemed to become slightly thinner. Well, good, she thought. Maybe now I can concentrate on these quizzes.
Actually, she'd been doing rather well at avoiding thinking of Snape—up until the last few days.
From any sensible point of view, working with Snape had been more painless than she would have expected. That was the thing she ought to focus on. And she was learning to ignore his more obviously annoying traits with increasing ease..
Last week, when he'd come to observe her class with the fifth years, she managed to forget his presence for most of the lecture. He'd been stiff and scowling after her class, had seemed unreasonably offended by the fact that she already had plans for lunch—even though she'd politely asked him along—and he obviously hadn't been impressed with her lesson. He hadn't even bothered listening to the second voice-cast glamour she did. In a nutshell, it was a typical day with Snape. And she had been quite pleased with herself for thinking almost nothing of it at all.
She'd gone on to have a most enjoyable lunch with Professor Lupin, had gone for a walk about the grounds afterwards, and had even lingered on the Quidditch field for a while to watch the Gryffindors practice. And all with nary a thought of the Potions Master. Even the mysterious "something important" he wanted to discuss with her had completely slipped her mind.
The following morning, when he'd stalked through her office to his supply room, he'd seemed to be in an especially foul temper, and he looked like he'd slept badly or was getting sick. He'd practically snapped her head off when she asked if he was all right. But nonetheless, throughout the day—throughout the next several days—she'd kept getting the feeling that he was watching her, and not with his usual measuring stare or arrogant sneer. She'd feel his eyes on her and then glance up to see him looking away. Even when he was in his office next door and she was in hers, there had been a feeling of tension in the air, like the charged atmosphere just before a thunderstorm. That was not helping her to maintain the sensible attitude.
It was difficult to get clear impressions from the man, and the whole thing might be her own overheated imagination, those suppressed late-night fancies popping up uninvited in the daylight. She half-hoped it was imagination. But, she admitted, only half. She wished he wasn't quite so hard to read.
She reined in her thoughts and turned her attention back to the scrolls.
During the next hour, she managed to grade quite a few of them. Once she got her mind to focus on the task, it was interesting to see her students' fledgling understanding—and numerous misunderstandings—of the glamours.
Hermione Granger's quiz included a very detailed an accurate definition of Subtle Body—in fact, Miss Granger seemed to have memorized that part of her lecture almost word for word:
The subtle body is a layer of energy which emanates from a person or other living thing. Strictly speaking, it is not separate from the mundane physical body any more than heat is separate from fire. While the structures of the mundane body are responsible for maintaining physical existence, patterns in the subtle body are responsible for the qualities of sensory, emotional, and intellectual experience. The energies expand and contract depending on the circumstances, and the subtle body can extend energy tendrils as it interacts with the energies of others. Imposing a new pattern on the subtle body directly changes the thoughts and feelings of the subject, resulting in an illusion.
The subtle energies are imperceptible to most witches and wizards, though some have a natural talent for sensing them. Everyone can learn to perceive the subtle bodies (to some degree) by practicing exercises that increase awareness. Even some Muggles can learn to sense these energies, but only magical people can learn to manipulate them and create glamours.
Annwyd smiled as she gave Miss Granger full marks for her answer. She was less pleased with Mr. Goyle's:
The suttel body is a big egg of energy. It's kind of like light but different. It has tentackles.
She sighed as she wrote tactful corrections in the margin. Maybe one day, she mused, her arts would be standard knowledge as they had once been, not an obscure curiosity. Grandfather would have liked that. He had always said that eventually their arts would be restored to the status they deserved, even if he didn't live to see it. And maybe, by teaching at Hogwarts, she could help to bring that day closer to reality.
By the time she was due to meet Lupin, she had forgotten about Snape and his irritating habits and was thinking of nothing but a good meal and pleasant conversation.
~*~
It was a fine autumn day, exactly the kind that Annwyd liked best. The sky was a deep, clear blue and the air was cool and crisp. The leaves were an explosion of orange and crimson, and the late afternoon sun painted heavy streaks of gold across the grass. She was glad that Lupin had agreed to lunch in the gardens instead of the staff room. It might be a bit chilly for some people's tastes—they were both wearing their cloaks—but the day was worth it.
She bit into an apple with relish, and its cold, crisp tartness seemed like an edible version of autumn's delights. There would probably be few remaining days as fine as this one before fall gave way to winter.
Professor Lupin smiled at her. "You seem happy today, Annwyd."
She nodded, wiping apple juice from her chin. "I am happy," and as she said it, she realized it was true. "My classes are going well, and I like the students. Dumbledore pops round every few days with a cup of tea or a bag of toffees—checking up on me, I suppose, but he's awfully nice about it. Most of the faculty are being pretty friendly, and I haven't see McGonagall all week. Plus it's a lovely day. So what's not to be happy about?"
"It is especially fine weather for October," he agreed, looking around the gardens with appreciation. She could sense his comfortable, unassuming presence sweeping lightly across the space between them and brushing over the trees and the season's late flowers. "And it's good to see you looking less…apprehensive?"
"I think 'panic-stricken' is the word you're searching for." He shrugged and gave her a half-grin. "It's okay. The truth is, I was scared half to death. It's taken me all these weeks to get it through my head that I'm not one tiny slip-up away from being sent home again. And even if I am, I won't be fourteen, and Mother won't be coming to collect me at the station." Like a an unwanted piece of lost luggage that must nonetheless be claimed, she mentally added. But she let the thought go. It was too nice an afternoon to spoil.
"I take it from your list of the day's charms that you haven't made much headway with Minerva?"
She shook her head. "Haven't even tried, to be honest."
"She'll come round eventually. She's a fine person really. A little sharp sometimes, but her heart's in the right place."
He must have seen the disagreement written on her face.
"I guess your run-in with her must have made a lasting impression on both sides."
"You could say that."
"I was a bit surprised by her attitude, to tell you the truth. She's always been strict, but I've never seen her single out a particular student quite so…avidly."
"Oh thanks. I feel so special." But she smiled to let him know that it was okay. She knew there was no attack, no sense of reproach, behind the words. "And I'm glad you get on with her all right, seeing as she's your assigned watch-dog."
"Mostly she lets me alone to do my work. She seems to think the supervision is a bit silly since I've taught here before. And I have to agree." He sighed. "But, the Ministry is the Ministry, and it's a waste of time to expect sense and efficiency out of that lot. Especially with Cornelius Fudge at the helm."
Annwyd merely nodded. She'd never had any dealings with Fudge herself, but he seemed to be universally disliked at Hogwarts.
"And speaking of assigned watch-dogs, I have to say I don't envy you Snape. I hope he's not giving you too much grief."
"No, not too much." Whatever irritation she privately felt concerning her supervising professor was not something she cared to share with Lupin. And it was better—better for her own peace of mind as well as her privacy—to consider Snape in a more professional light. "All in all, he's been quite decent."
Lupin's face expressed mild disbelief. "That's surprising. To say the least."
"Well, aside from the scowls and the sarcasm and all that, he's actually been rather helpful."
Lupin didn't argue, but he didn't look convinced.
"He gave me a magical map of Hogwarts, for one thing."
That seemed to catch Lupin's attention.
"A magical map?"
"Yes." She took it out of her pocket and showed it to him. "See, there's a little red dot here where it says 'gardens.' That's where I am—or where the map is, I'm not sure which. I, um, kept getting lost on the way to my classes."
Lupin surveyed the map for a long moment. "Well," he admitted at last, "not very original, but I'm glad it's useful. I should've thought to make you one myself."
"That's okay. I've got one now, and it is useful. Not that Snape was nice about it, of course. I think he said something like 'Maybe you'll be less bothersome to the rest of us if you can find your way around without help.' But still, minus the sneer, it was sort of thoughtful of him."
"I suppose," said Lupin noncommittally.
"You should have seen him when he heard he had to share his office space. I thought he was going to throttle Dumbledore on the spot. But after he finished grinding his teeth and looking daggers at everyone, he helped me settle in. Came up with a bunch of little things I might need. He even levitated the furniture to make it the way I wanted it when he saw me trying to lift one of the bookcases. So I guess he's not as bad as I thought he was when I was a student."
"Annwyd," said Lupin earnestly, "since you're stuck working with Snape, I'm glad it's going well. I really am. But be careful, okay? Don't…take anything for granted."
"What do you mean?" She was surprised by how serious he looked and she could feel the shift, the sharpening of his attention.
"I just don't think that Snape has changed much over the years. And I have no reason to believe that he's any kinder to his fellow teachers than he is to his students, as a rule. If Snape is being helpful, there's a reason for it, and it might not be a reason you'd like."
"Well, I'm guessing that Dumbledore told him to help me out. Part of supervising my work and all that."
"Yeah, maybe."
A second later, another idea occurred to her. "Lupin, you're not suggesting that Snape has taken, er, a romantic interest in me, are you? Because I really don't think it's anything like that." Well, during the past few days, the thought had crossed her mind, but she was making a point of not taking it seriously.
Lupin laughed. "Gods, no! That would be my very last suspicion."
She must have looked a bit indignant, because he quickly added, "Not that someone wouldn't be interested in you, of course. I just can't imagine Snape with a romantic interest in anyone. I've known him for years—we were students here at the same time, you know—and I don't think Snape has ever been interested in another living creature of any sort if he can't give it detention or dice it up to use in a potion."
He didn't like Snape, that was clear. Even without the words, she would have known from the sudden hard edge to the air around him. But Annwyd decided to let it pass without comment. She felt disinclined to discuss the Potions Master's romantic interests or lack thereof.
"I'm glad he's not making your life miserable. That's something. Just don't…. I wouldn't trust him too far if I were you. He's got a nasty streak that's more than skin-deep."
Annwyd nodded.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor waited patiently to see if she was going to add anything more. After a moment, seeing that she wasn't inclined to do so, he tactfully changed the subject. The sharp, focused quality of the air between them softened.
"I hear interesting things about your classes."
He's considerate, she thought, and he's trying to look out for me. Rather like Dumbledore, in a way.
"Likewise," she said out loud. "You seem to be something of a favorite, especially with the Gryffindors."
"Hmmm," he nodded modestly. "They're a good lot, by and large. I hear," he added, "that you have a somewhat unusual classroom assistant."
"Grandfather? Yes, he's been a great asset. It's much easier for me to let him do a lot of the talking. After all, that's the way I remember my own lessons. And he could've been a fine professor, I think, if circumstances had been a little different."
"If half the rumors I hear from the students are true, he's an entertaining character. And a fine old gentleman as well."
"The finest," affirmed Annwyd with a touch of pride. It was nice to hear that Grandfather was appreciated by the students. He'd gotten little enough acknowledgement from the wizarding world while he was alive. Not that he'd sought it, of course, but, in Annwyd's opinion, he surely deserved it.
"I'd like to meet him sometime."
Annwyd smiled. "Maybe you can drop in on one of my lectures. I'm not supposed to, you know, glamour anything up outside the classroom."
"Not even if another faculty member requests a demonstration?"
"Well…." She was certainly tempted. The conversation about Professor Snape had left her feeling unsettled, and the truth was, she was always itching to use her arts. The constraints she'd promised to keep still chafed. "All right. But if word gets back to Dumbledore, I intend to place all the blame on you."
"Agreed, Miss Gwir," said Lupin. "Let's see the old fellow."
Annwyd drew the well-practiced pattern in the air, and the old wizard was suddenly sitting beside them. He rubbed his leathery hands together in the cool air and smiled merrily at Annwyd and Lupin.
"Annwyd, love, you're looking well," he said to Annwyd. He turned to her companion. "Professor Lupin, I presume?"
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Gwir."
Lupin started to extend his hand for a handshake, then thought better of it, sparing Annwyd from having to call up a glamour of touch. Instead, he settled for a nod and a friendly smile.
"Lupin, hmmm?" the old wizard grinned. "You must be our wolf."
Lupin's face suddenly turned grey and the smile vanished.
"Excuse me?"
Annwyd couldn't understand why he looked so shaken, angry even. Turning Grandfather's eccentricities on Snape might have been—okay, definitely was—a mistake, but she hadn't expected Lupin to be offended. And by Grandfather's usual standards, "wolf" was mild.
"He's only teasing, Professor," she said hastily. "He does that to everyone, you know. It's an old habit. Be happy you weren't a sticky-footed mugwump. Snape didn't seem to care for that one at all."
Lupin laughed, but clearly it was forced. He had withdrawn into himself, and the space around him felt empty.
"No, I don't imagine he would."
He seemed to be recovering himself, and his face had regained some of its normal color. Still, he was at a distance now. There was something strange going on. She would have been certain, till just a moment ago, that Lupin would find Grandfather amusing.
"Are you all right? Really, I—we didn't mean—I didn't mean to offend you."
She dropped the glamour.
"No, it's fine. I'm sorry I reacted like that. I was just surprised I guess. I'm not accustomed to meeting glamoured folks."
He's lying. I have no idea why, but he's lying.
She decided not to press it. He hadn't pushed her when she'd decided to drop the discussion of Professor Snape, and clearly he didn't want to explain his reaction to the glamour.
"No apology needed," she said. "I'm sure it must be strange if you're not used to it."
"Well," said Lupin, with an almost-normal smile, "it's been an excellent lunch, but I have a meeting with Minerva I need to go to. She insists on observing at least some semblance of overseeing my work."
"Oh, of course," Annwyd said, trying not to feel hurt. They usually had a leisurely chat after they'd finished eating.
"Shall we have lunch again next week? Next Thursday?" A mild flicker of warmth extended, then vanished again.
"Yes, that would be nice."
Well, at least he still wanted to have lunch with her again. She was glad that whatever just happened hadn't made him change his mind about that. She'd been enjoying their weekly lunches very much. She needed a friend, and she would be sorry to lose Lupin over an incident she didn't begin to understand.
"Good-bye, Annwyd. See you later."
"Bye," she said, forcing a smile. "I hope the meeting's painless."
"I'm sure it'll be fine. Enjoy the rest of the day."
"I will," she promised.
She privately thought, however, that the afternoon had lost some of its charm.
~*~
After leaving the gardens, Annwyd had strolled aimlessly across the grounds and finally into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. It was calm and quiet here. The huge trees and the small creatures that scurried among them wove a comfortable tapestry of energies she could relax in. She knew that there were larger, more formidable beasts in the forest as well, but she wasn't worried. Animals were easily fooled by glamours, and she was permitted to cast in self-defense.
Losing her way also didn't concern her. She had a good enough sense of direction when she was outdoors. It was human habitations that confused her, the shifting energies of crowds that tended to make her lose her bearings. As she meandered, pausing here and there to touch the bole of a tree or observe the activity of a bird or insect, she wished that people were as easy to deal with as these simple plant and animal lives.
But perhaps Grandfather had been right. One couldn't hide away from the world forever.
And, in spite of her disparaging thoughts about humans, she was lonely.
She could—and did—glamour up her grandfather often enough, but deep down she knew it wasn't the same as a real person.
Dumbledore was always pleasant and charming, but he was the headmaster and the greatest wizard in Britain. A benevolent presence, and one she was grateful for, but not exactly someone she could think of as a friend.
She envied the warm camaraderie that seemed to be developing between Clarice du Bois and Professor Sprout. She wished she could be included in that friendship—du Bois seemed nice enough, if a trifle boring, and she had always liked Sprout—but the two Herbologists were entirely taken up with their plans for a new greenhouse and they had little time to spare for anyone else. Annwyd had even offered to assist them with some of the new plants, but they assured her that all was well in hand. Probably they didn't want to entrust their exotic new species to a non-specialist, she thought. And perhaps they hadn't realized that she was offering partly because she wanted company, not just in an effort to be polite.
Most of the other professors had come to acknowledged her presence gracefully enough, and she had accepted a number of invitations to lunch, dinner, and tea. But the fact was that they had little in common. Many of them were three times her age and probably could barely remember their own first terms as teachers. More significantly, she was not adept at their arts, nor they at hers, and there was a polite but distinct acknowledgement of the differences.
So basically, that left Lupin and Snape. And her lunch with Lupin had left her feeling worried about both.
Until today, she had been fairly confident that she was developing a comfortable friendship with Lupin. They shared a meal once or twice a week, and she always found his company enjoyable. She hoped that she hadn't done something to damage the relationship. She had mulled it over throughout the afternoon, but she still had no idea what had disturbed him.
She thought it was going to be all right—he had pointedly arranged lunch for next week—but it still felt bad to know that she had offended him somehow without meaning to. And it felt worse that he had lied about it.
And finally, she admitted, she felt rather defensive, and a little indignant, that he had not liked Grandfather. In her eyes, the old man was so thoroughly lovable that she had expected her new friend to feel the same. It wasn't like the incident with Snape, which—had she not been caught up in a sudden urge to mischief—she could have surely expected to end badly.
Snape. She sighed. Now there's a whole other kettle of fish.
She certainly couldn't call the man a friend. Indeed, if she listed the qualities which made Lupin promising in that department, Snape would be the exact opposite of the list. And now Lupin was giving her earnest warnings not to trust him.
Still, when she said that Snape had been helpful, she hadn't been lying.
Perhaps the most surprising event of all—and something she hadn't brought up at lunch—had occurred in one of the classes that Snape was observing.
Draco Malfoy, a snotty Slytherin she had disliked on sight, had quickly figured out that he could nettle her with poorly disguised insinuations about the low esteem accorded to Glamour Casters and the impropriety of having a teacher who was inept when it came to "real" magic. During the second week of the term, she was just starting her lesson when Malfoy said to one of his nasty little cohorts, in a whisper that was clearly meant to be overheard, "Did you notice that she doesn't even carry a wand? I hear she's practically a Squib!"
She was determined to ignore the comment and continue with her lecture, but she felt the heat rising to her cheeks. She could hear, all too clearly in her memory, her mother's infinitely disgusted and disappointed voice: "It must come from your father's side. That's all I can say. No one in my family's ever been a Squib. How do you expect me to face my friends?"
Then a low voice from the back of the classroom had interrupted her thoughts.
"Excuse me, Instructor, but might I say a word? Mr. Malfoy, perhaps Miss Gwir, being a new instructor, is not yet accustomed to the system of House points. But I will take twenty points from Slytherin for your rudeness, and if I hear of it again, it will be fifty."
It was hard to say who was more surprised—Malfoy, the Gryffindor students, or herself.
Since then the fifth year Slytherins, including Malfoy, had barely uttered a peep in her classroom, for which she was truly and unabashedly grateful.
Still, it was a little strange, wasn't it? Snape's preferential treatment of the students from his own house was legendary. And she had later gathered from overheard snippets of conversation that Malfoy was generally a favorite. It was puzzling.
Is Lupin right? Does Snape have some kind of ulterior motive?
If he did, she couldn't imagine what it would be. She didn't have any money, any influence, or any family connections—none of the normal things that might cause someone to surreptitiously curry her favor.
And what about the "something important" he'd been so determined to discuss with her last week? What was that about and, if it was so important, why had he not mentioned it again? For no reason she could pinpoint, the matter had developed a vaguely ominous feel around the edges. Probably just nerves and Lupin's over-protective warnings, she decided. That and the fact that Snape remained so guarded, so impervious to the perceptions that usually guided her.
At any rate, this was a kettle of fish she'd thought about enough—and more than enough—for one day.
Her wandering had brought her to a clearing in the trees, and she decided to sit down for a few minutes. It was getting colder as the sun dipped lower and the shadows deepened, but she was warm enough wrapped in her cloak, and the ground was dry. Resting her back against an enormous oak, she leaned back and closed her eyes.
She could feel the bole of the tree supporting her back and she could feel its strong, patient life supporting her as well. It reached down into the earth and up into the sky, slowly turning soil and sunlight into leaves and branches. So old, so secure with its deep roots and its towering limbs….
Its energy didn't react to her presence—she was too fleeting for its long slow awareness, here and gone in a flash as it contemplated the passing years and the endless circle of seasons. And yet, perhaps it was aware of her, like an old man dreaming of his distant childhood might be aware of a moth that landed briefly on his hand. It accepted her, and her own mind felt calmer and stronger leaning against it.
For several long moments she simply sat and thought of nothing.
Then, after a while, her mind returned to its earlier musings, but with more detachment now with less worry.
Without premeditation, she traced the air and Professor Lupin sat next to her. Other than Grandfather, her glamours rarely spoke or acted unless she specifically intended it. Grandfather's glamour, she supposed, was so well-known and so often produced that it had practically taken on a life of its own, drawing on her rich store of memories.
She surveyed Lupin's patched robes, his brown hair flecked with early grey, and his tired but kind face. A good man, she decided. Whatever the problem had been today, it would sort itself out. If he still seemed strange or awkward next week, then she'd just ask him about it. Case closed. She dropped the glamour.
After a little twitch of indecision, she drew another pattern and Professor Snape glided through the trees, his long cloak billowing behind him. He paused in the center of the clearing, staring off at something in the distance. She kept the glamour from turning in her direction. Even if he wasn't real, she didn't feel like facing those fathomless eyes at the moment.
She felt a flush of guilty pleasure at being able to study him at her leisure like this, without his knowledge or permission. Not strictly in keeping with her promise to Dumbledore, she supposed, nor with her promise to Snape that she wouldn't glamour his likeness. But it didn't hurt anything, did it? Dumbledore said she could practice in private, and this deserted clearing was pretty damn private. And since Snape wouldn't encounter or hear about his doppelganger, he had nothing to be upset about, really.
Her eyes ran over his tall, lean form. He was like a portrait done in only two colors: ivory and black. The rest of the world's hues seemed frivolous and gaudy next to his elegant starkness. Pale face and hands, black hair, black clothes, black eyes. At that thought, he turned in her direction and she caught a flash of those eyes, their dark glitter.
With a little push of concentration, she willed his gaze away from her.
He was not a handsome man, not really. His nose was large and hawkish, his hair a bit uncared for, his lips colorless and hard. Ah, but that last was a dangerous thought. She instantly started to wonder what his mouth would look like under different circumstances—slack with desire or twisted with pleasure instead of anger—and what his lips would feel like against her skin, if they would fill her with the same dark heat that she remembered from his palm pressed against her hand. Her pulse sped and her legs felt warm and weak.
Oh gods, this was a bad idea.
Her hand sliced the glamour. She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes again, trying to recapture that earlier feeling of peace.
The web of forest energies, however, seemed to side with her body rather than her common sense. It was calm and tranquil here, and yet…there was a deep pulse of longing woven into the earth's tapestry…the yearning of plants for water and sun, of predators for prey, of small beasts for the warmth of other bodies in snug burrows…and of every sort of creature for its mate. Her own desires throbbed with the rhythm of the that longing.
There's been too little of that in my life, she thought.
During her third year at Hogwarts there had been a brown-haired Gryffindor boy with a quick, crooked grin that she had thought of—with dramatic sighs—as her boyfriend. It was typical thirteen-year-old puppy love, she supposed, complete with secret notes, daring hand-holding, and a few kisses stolen after a butterbeer in Hogsmeade.
During those brief student years, she had stayed with her mother in London for the Christmas holidays and for a few weeks out of the summers. Mother lived in an elegant townhouse with her second husband—Annwyd could never think of him as a step-father, much less as simply father—she barely knew him—and during those visits Mother had, for once, taken an interest in her daughter's life. Most of that interest had involved dragging Annwyd around to various teas and parties with the high-society wizardry of London and, in between these dreaded social gatherings, delivering bits of woman-to-woman advice on finding a "suitable match" at Hogwarts. "Don't make the mistake I made, Annwyd. Get it right the first time."
She never found out, however, whether her Gryffindor boy would have met Mother's standards for a suitable match. By the end of the year she had been dismissed from Hogwarts, Mother had promptly relegated her to the obscurity of Grandfather's cottage once again, and there were no more visits to London and no more hints about eligible young wizards from pureblood families.
Which, by and large, had been a blessing.
She certainly hadn't missed the confusing chaos of London or the elegant, suffocating parties, at which she always completely failed to make the right impression.
"Act confident, Annwyd. Stop looking so nervous. Be charming!"
"And for gods' sake don't use your grandfather's stupid illusions!"
Well, which do you want? she had always wanted to ask.
So overall she had been happy enough to re-settle into Grandfather's little cottage, where life proceeded more or less as if she'd never left to attend Hogwarts. It did, however, leave something to be desired in the way of matches, suitable or not.
"Annwyd, you must be lonely here," the old man had said one evening when she was seventeen.
"No, of course I'm not. I have you, don't I?"
A few days later, he had discreetly added a footnote to her casting lessons—spoken as if it was merely a bit of trivia and nothing to do with her personally.
"Over the years, it hasn't been unknown for a wizard to use the arts for a little fun. 'Muggle-mushing' they called it when I was a boy. Though that was back in the age of the dinosaurs—no doubt there's a new name now."
He had given a nostalgic little chuckle.
"'Course some kinds of wizards marry Muggles and are happy enough, but it's a hard thing for a young Glamour Caster to attempt it. Too tempting to use the arts and use them the wrong way. My older brother fell for a sweet little thing from the village once. Glamoured himself up to look like the handsomest lad she'd ever seen. Unkind for both of them in the end.
"Not that there's any harm in the pleasures, of course—silly to think that. But falling under the glamours isn't the same as falling in love. That's the thing he forgot. It isn't love."
Annwyd had taken the tacit warning—and the tacit permission—to heart.
Every now and again, a pretty stranger passed through the village and spent a few hours with a local lad. Not a surpassingly beautiful stranger that would leave a boy pining over her absence. Just a girl who was nice enough to look at and was on her way to somewhere else and wouldn't mind some company for an afternoon or evening.
That wasn't unkind, she thought.
And it wasn't love.
And, after a while, it wasn't worth the effort.
I've had a dozen lovers, she thought, and none of them know what I look like. I remember them and they remember a face I made up for them.
They remembered, if anything, a pretty but not-too-pretty girl with a friendly smile and an unremarkable story:
"I'm on my way to London to live with my aunt."
"I'm seeing the countryside before my family moves to America."
"I'm collecting rare butterflies for a project at the university."
But never the real story, of course. Never "I'm Annwyd. I live just up the road and I'm a witch."
The pleasure itself had been good enough, she supposed. But somehow, after the novelty wore off, it was all somehow a little disappointing. There was always a separate part of her watching herself and thinking, Oh—so this is what it's like. Well, yes, it's nice. Sometimes even very nice. But never quite the thunder and lightning she thought it ought to be, or wished it could be.
She found herself shivering and realized that the sun had disappeared completely. The forest was growing colder as the twilight faded to gloom. She roused herself and stretched limbs that had stiffened from sitting too long on the chilled ground. It was high time to return to the castle.