Author's note: Thank you, Blaise! I can't stress enough how much your reviews and mails and letters and everything mean to me. *hugs* Thank you, Charlsie! Nice to know when somebody's actually sticking with me! *hugs* If you liked the last chapter you'll most certainly like this one, too…
Chapter 7: A Dreamer's Mind
Nightquest
a quest not for the past
But for tomorrow to make it last
Simply the best way to walk this life
Hand in hand with a dreamer's mind
—Nightwish: Nightquest
Sariss headed up the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office. The headmaster had been so kind as to invite her to a cup of tea on Sunday. Frankly, she didn't think his reasons for inviting her had something to do with only having some tea. She expected it to be merely a pretext to be able to talk about the recent incident—which she was not comfortable with. Neither talking about it nor the incident in itself she was comfortable with.
She knocked, waited for him to bid her enter, and did so. "Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
"Ah, and a good afternoon to you, my dear. Come in and sit down. I suppose tea is in order?"
"Of course it is, thank you," she said as he handed her a cup of steaming peppermint tea that warmed her hands immediately. "Mmm, it's lovely," she added when she inhaled the tea's aroma.
"You're welcome. So… how is it going?"
"What do you mean?"
"Teaching and all," he said vaguely.
"Er… well, teaching is great, better than I thought at first. The students are alright. Food's still excellent. The accommodations are very lovely—I like the large fireplace in my rooms very much… Everything's fine, yes, perfectly fine. Couldn't be better."
"I believe you exactly five sixths of what you just said."
"And I believe you every single word of what you just said."
"Care to fill me in about the sixth sixth?"
"Not really." She made a face.
"What if I told you that I already know about it?"
"So the Potions master has spilt the beans already?" Sariss was everything but enthusiastic about that.
"Indeed he has. But, you know me, I always like to hear two sides of the story."
"I can so imagine what he told you."
"Really?" Dumbledore grinned.
Sariss rolled her eyes. "Great. This is so perfect. Now I'm providing the entertainment, isn't that so?"
"I must admit that I found what Severus told me very entertaining already, yes." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily from behind his half-moon spectacles. "I wonder if you can add something to the story that I do not know yet."
Sariss smirked. "You know what?"
"What?"
"He's driving me mad, this man. He's driving me mad. I don't know why it happens now, but he's driving me mad."
"Very eloquent that was." Sariss rolled her eyes again and jumped to her feet. "Why might Severus Snape be driving you mad?"
"Finally something I can answer without too much thinking. Thank you very much," she said, more than just a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. "It's as simple as that: He's treating me as though I were a student of his whom he can scold and yell at and Merlin knows what."
Sariss was pacing back and forth by now, underlining each sentence with a dramatic gesture. "I could put my hands around his throat and squeeze, really, Professor. Very, very slowly. And it's not just what he verbally throws at me, it's what he throws at me emotionally. This, of course, he does not intentionally, I understand that very well, but I lose myself when he does that. I can't think anymore. I start uttering exactly the things that make him even angrier and then he says something that makes me even angrier and so on and so on, until I have no choice but to leave, lest—." Sariss broke off, seeing the look on Dumbledore's face. "I don't understand what you find so funny about all of this."
"Well, it's not exactly funny, but very entertaining."
Sariss scowled at him, which seemingly only increased his amusement. She groaned in exasperation.
"You see, my dear, I had a very similar conversation with a person the two of us know very well."
"Oh, goodie, here it comes… Let me guess what he said then, alright? That I'm… incompetent, not very bright—to put it mildly—despite of what I may have been when in school, er… what else could there be?" she mused. "Ah, yes, stubborn, of course, I've been called that a lot. And of course, I'm absolutely obnoxious, despicable… Have I already said that I'm heartless, too?"
By now Dumbledore quite obviously fought back laughter. "You know I really find it quite amusing how you get roundabout—no, it's only almost—everything wrong. And that with your special talents…" He shook his head.
"Well, if I am so wrong, then why is he treating me as though I had killed his pet?" she asked, still incredulous at his unceasing hilarity. "Aside from the obvious answer, that is…"
"And what is the obvious answer?"
"His inflated ego. I hadn't even noticed that before I came back here, you know? You were right about warning me that he wouldn't take it lightly if a former student of his were to get the job he had been after for how long? Almost twenty years by now?"
"Roundabout that, yes. No wonder he's frustrated."
"I just hope he gets over it soon. Even sitting by his side at mealtimes makes my skin crawl…"
"Don't worry, when you start a new job it's normal for things not to go well at first."
"You tell me."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon spectacles; his grin had never even faltered.
"You really aren't of great help this time, Professor," Sariss stated dryly.
"I think the two of you can sort this out like grown-up people."
"Him, grown up? I don't think so—oh, gods, if I had said that a few years ago I would have served detention upon detention…"
Dumbledore sniggered.
Sariss rolled her eyes. "My distress really amuses you. I can't believe it."
"How ever did you notice that?" he asked brightly.
Sariss sighed. "No offence, Professor, but this is useless. I'm outta here."
She headed for the door.
"Wait a second."
"What is it now? Do you want to hear more so you can really laugh your head off?"
"Seriously, Sariss, I think you should perhaps apologize—."
"Apologize?" she exploded. "Whatever for? He started it!"
He hurt me first.
"Didn't you just say that he doesn't seem to be the grown-up of the two of you?"
"Are you implying that this might be a The-Wiser-Head-Gives-In-Situation?"
"Not implying. It quite obviously is."
She groaned. "I'll think about it," she said, pouting a bit. "Thoroughly… Come to think of it… Very thoroughly. I don't feel like being the wiser head. I prefer being angry with him. I choose to."
"Why? Why do you have to choose to be angry with him?"
"This being angry is very useful, you see. It forces back some other feelings that aren't so easy to handle, feelings coming from him and others. Not to mention myself. That's the worst part. I'm not used to feeling like this."
"How?"
"Hurt. And furious because of it." A single word, voiced in a questioning tone managed to draw the essence of what it was all about out of her. "A part of me wants to see him suffer. But he so obviously doesn't even care if I'm there or not. I want him to realize that some things he said were just not fair—."
"I understand, but I think nonetheless—."
"I already said I'd think about it, Professor. Perhaps I'll give him the chance to make the first move, which he will if he knows what's good for him," she muttered the last few words a bit too harshly for her own taste. Then she took a deep breath, arranged the expression on her face into something resembling a faint smile and continued much more calmly, "If you'll excuse me now? I think there's nothing to be added to this topic of conversation."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Good day, Professor. Thanks for the invitation."
"Any time, my dear, any time."
I'd rather eat my wand without pepper and salt than apologize any time in the near future… Arrogant bastard—I can't believe I thought that. He was my teacher. I shouldn't be thinking something like that about him.
But he is arrogant.
Yes, he definitely is arrogant. And sarcastic. And rude. And unfair. And—.
Incredible how many words you know to describe him with. Tell me something.
What?
Why is he constantly on your mind when you think so ill of him?
I'm not listening to your implications because there is nothing about him that I find remotely attractive. So shut up. I never want to see him again. I can't believe it has come this far—and that within a matter of days… If it goes much worse we'll kill each other—I, of course, will be the survivor, you can bet on that…
Enough, enough! I will shut up—.
Fine.
For now…
~*~*~
Attention Gryffindors!!!
Quidditch tryouts for the position of a
CHASER
scheduled for
Saturday 4th October 14.00 h
Down at the pitch, of course
BYOB
(Bring your own broom)
read the notice Harry had first pinned to the wall in the Gryffindor common room and was now pinning to the general notice board in the Entrance Hall so that no one could possibly overlook it—even those who tended to leave Gryffindor Tower in the morning hardly opening their eyes and came back with drooping eyelids in the evening after hours of detention or studying which, in Harry's opinion, sometimes tended to come down to the same thing.
As he magicked the last pin in place, Professor McGonagall joined him at the notice board, a message of her own in her hand.
"Ah, so we'll finally have a complete team again," she said. "I trust you'll choose the best candidate, Potter."
"Naturally, Professor," Harry said and stepped aside as the Professor unrolled the parchment she'd had been holding. "We fully intend to get the cup. I trust I can speak for the as of yet incomplete team there."
"Good," she said. "There. That should do it. Have a nice day, Mr Potter." She swept away in direction of the Great Hall.
The poster she had stuck to the notice board announced a Hallowe'en costume ball, which would take place, surprise, surprise, on 31st October, Hallowe'en night.
And as it happened to be, as Harry stood there, reading the notice that was next to his own, he already had an idea as to what his costume would be. It was almost ridiculously simple. But brilliant.
~*~*~
On 4th October, after lunch, Harry, Ron and the rest of the team went down to the Quidditch pitch to organize the tryouts. It was merely one thirty, but there were already a few people waiting for them. Some quite nervous-looking third and fourth years were comparing their broomsticks and exchanging pieces of general advice.
"Um… if everyone is ready… Anyone mind if we'd begin early?" Harry asked. "No? Fine. Here's how it goes: One at a time. Nat or Jamie will throw the Quaffle for you to catch and you'll try to score. It's as simple as that. Ten shots each and we'll see."
Harry drew out a piece of parchment and a quill. "Right. Who's first?"
Uneasy glances. Then,
"I'll do it. Name's Jenny Bateman. Third year."
"Good. Do your worst to Ron."
The curly-haired girl sped off on her Nimbus Two Thousand, caught the Quaffle from Nat—and missed the hoop by inches. She tried again, only to have the Quaffle blocked by Ron who had already guessed where she'd been aiming. So it went on. No matter how hard the girl tried, no success. And she did try.
After her ten shots, she came back down again, blushing, and said, shrugging, "Well, too bad, isn't it?" before she left the pitch.
Harry shrugged, too. "Next."
It went on that way. Hardly anyone managed to get the Quaffle past Ron. The best of the candidates scored three times out of ten. (Harry made a note about that, since it was quite an achievement.) Ron wasn't pleased and prevented the following would-be Chaser entirely from scoring.
Harry kept taking notes on everyone's performance be it abysmal or acceptable—which meant one to three goals, because no one managed more all afternoon.
"Alright then," Harry said tiredly, scanning the few people who had managed to get a few shots past Ron. "I guess there's no one else who—."
"Harry! Harry, wait!" A black-clad, red-haired whirlwind came rushing across the pitch and skidded to a halt in front of Harry, panting and forcing out a, "Sorry. Am I too late? Please tell me I'm not. I was in the library with Hermione and I completely forgot the time."
"Ginny! No, it's not too late. Why haven't you told me you wanted to try out?"
"Because Ron would have said something like 'Ginny, you're my sister, Mum's counting on me to protect you, Quidditch is nothing for you, it's too dangerous'." She did a quite accurate impression of Ron's voice. "You get my meaning?"
"Yeah, that sums up what I can imagine Ron saying," Harry chuckled.
"Well, may I have a go at the hoops now? I'm nervous enough as it is—."
"Ginny!" Ron came soaring down towards them.
"Here comes the entertainment…" she muttered.
"Why are you holding your broomstick?" Ron asked.
"Because I want to sweep the stands. Honestly, Ron, what do you think why I've got my broom with me? I want to get on the team."
"What? Ginny, you're my little sister. Mum wants me to keep you safe. Quidditch is too dangerous—."
Harry chuckled again.
"What?"
"Ginny's a Diviner."
"Huh?"
"I knew you'd say all that," said Ginny wryly.
"Anyway, you're not trying out. Period."
"Ronald Arthur Weasley!" Ginny's voice echoed off the stands. She sounded remarkably like Mrs Weasley when she didn't like Ron playing the big brother. Everyone present stopped dead in their tracks, be they up in the air or sitting around on the grass.
If it were possible to kill by a mere look—which, at second thought might just be possible indeed, under the condition that you used the right spell—Ron would already be a sticky puddle on the floor, decorated with Harry's old Firebolt.
"Ginny, I'm not joking."
"Neither am I, Ron, neither am I. I am going to try out for the team. See if you can stop me!"
She kept glaring at her brother, resting her hands on her hips, while Harry stood by watching the little family row. He was in a bit of trouble. Whom should he support? His best friend? Or rather his girlfriend? It was a stalemate-situation.
Natalie and Jamie, who had meanwhile been doing a little practice of their own, finally soared down towards the small group of people.
"Sorry to disturb your little chit-chat," asked Jamie, "but are we finished?"
"Yeah, can we come down now? Who will it be?" Nat joined in.
"Not finished. And it'll be me if my thickhead-brother stops being a pest," Ginny said resolutely.
"It's not going to be you, because Mum would kill me if I'd let you get hurt."
"Oh come on. Let her try. Won't hurt," Natalie said.
"Er… listen. Why won't you let Ginny have a go?" Jamie said. "I mean, if she scores against the best Keeper since Wood—" (Here, Jamie winked at Ginny) "—she's earned being on the team."
"Yes, and you've got to shut up forever," Ginny mumbled.
"And if she can't beat you and can't score better than everyone else here today, she won't be on the team anyway. Either way, problems solved."
"Fine with me," said Ginny, a glint of steel in her usually gentle warm light-brown eyes as she looked at Ron. "Let's go."
She mounted her old Shooting Star and was off into the air.
"Harry, Mum's going to kill me…" Ron whined.
"I'm afraid if Ginny doesn't try out she's going to kill you. Either way you're in a bit of trouble."
"That was encouraging. Thanks."
"Any time," Harry said brightly. "Hey, look at it that way, we might have two Weasleys on the team again. Sort of a lucky charm."
"I'd better go up there and do everything I can to prevent that." Ron mounted the broom. "Mum's so going to kill me," he muttered while he sped off towards where Ginny already hovering, waiting to have a go at the hoops.
Frankly, Harry was convinced Ginny would beat everyone else who had tried out that day. He had seen her play Quidditch when they'd been practising during the summer holidays. Harry idly wondered why Ginny hadn't tried out earlier. Two years before, almost the whole team had graduated which had left five openings. Only Harry and Ron (who had been on the team since the year after Wood had left) had remained.
But the answer was obvious. Ron had just given it to him. 'Quidditch is too dangerous for little fragile Ginny.' Not that Harry didn't understand Ron's opinion about his sister. He just thought that if Ginny wanted it, she should at least try. Trying didn't hurt. And if she were on the team, Harry would see her more often, since as soon as practice got more intense and the N.E.W.Ts were close, there'd be not much time for anything else but those things. Harry wished with all his heart that Ginny would beat Ron more often than three times.
Harry, too, rose in the air and hovered at a distance from where Ginny was just being thrown the Quaffle. She caught it deftly, pretended to throw it through the left hoop—Ron dived there—but then threw it right through the middle, where Ron had been seconds ago.
In addition to the Quaffle, Ginny threw an incredibly smug look at her brother who, in return, looked much more determined to prevent Ginny from scoring again—which she did despite Ron's considerable efforts. She knew her brother too well. But that didn't hinder Ron from stopping her third shot.
That made Ginny change her strategy at random. Shot four and five went through the hoops like nothing. No one had ever scored that easily against Ron. Shot number six went through the hoop far on the right at an almost impossible angle.
"Give up, Ron," Harry advised. "You lost; Ginny won."
Ron cursed and once more complained that "Mum's going to be so not pleased."
"Look it that way, dearest brother, that Slytherin Keeper, what's-his-name?"
"Hayes," Ron murmured.
"Hayes will have an even harder time with me than you just had. That, I promise you."
"Mum's so going to kill me."
"She doesn't have to know…" Ginny said.
"But if she finds out…"
"Then it's my fault alone. After all, you did your best not to let me on the team. You have the perfect alibi."
"Gin," Harry said, "sometimes I think you'd have made one hell of a Slytherin."
"I hope that's a compliment."
"Of course. You're cunning and ambitious—."
"And evil," Ron added.
"Hey, Nat, Jamie! We're finished! Colin, Dennis!" (The two of them had been sitting somewhere in the stands, watching, and came now running onto the field.) "Any objections as to Ginny's getting on the team?"
A chorus of "No"s and "Not at all"s answered.
"You're on the team. Congratulations, Gin."
"Thank you. And the reason for that decision wasn't that I'm sleeping with the Captain, everyone got that?" Ginny said with a Cheshire cat grin on her face. "Good. I don't want to hear anything like that anyway."
"Gin, there's going to be a Hallowe'en costume party and I was thinking, you know, I have an idea as to your costume…" said Harry.
"Which would be?" Ginny asked, eyeing him curiously.
"Miss Weasley, would you like to be my Golden Snitch?"
Ginny giggled. "So you can catch me, huh?"
"Sort of."
"Okay. If you're my Seeker."
~*~*~
It was late afternoon on 31st October and she was getting ready for the costume ball, that is, if you could call pacing half-dressed through her chambers 'preparing for the ball'.
The reason for this: Severus Snape, the Potions master, whom she hadn't spoken a single word to since the day.
Neither had he. He hadn't even snarled at her or sneered at her. She hadn't sensed much coming from him either. Of course, he knew about her talents and didn't want to give himself away. But what was it he was hiding? That was the question. Did he in fact want to apologize himself but couldn't? Or was it rather that he was so stubborn that he simply wasn't the man to admit that he had been… unfair. Unfair and cruel.
"This cannot go on. I can't go on like this! This situation is wearing on my nerves. Eight weeks already! Eight bloody damn weeks!" she cursed at her reflection in the mirror. "He could have approached me, could have tried to at least show that it was not as bad as it felt. I'm not even asking for an apology! Ouch!" She viciously tugged at her hair since it had become entangled in the brush. That was strange, since it was a Charmed one that usually prevented something like that from happening. Wincing, she all but tore it loose and threw it into the corner. "He wouldn't give me an apology anyway, his ego being as blown up as it is—Stop! Be reasonable. Act like the adult that you are, Sariss! If he can't, you must. This situation leads nowhere as it is. You go and apologize—but… how to do this?"
Right. How to apologize to a man who makes you feel so—.
Would make a good title for a book, wouldn't it?
"I am sorry, Professor. I was not aware that I—No, no, no, no!" She ran a hand through her hair and exhaled.
What would he say? Think. What would he answer if you said what you have in mind…
"Professor Snape, may I have a word with you?"
No, I can't say it like that. I'd be quoting him.
Not good. Think, Sariss, think. How to apologize to a man you—despite everything—respect so much that he makes you feel like a child—and furious because of that?
"Think. Be convincing. Express yourself clearly," she told her reflection in the mirror.
Unnecessary as it was, it answered (which was very annoying sometimes), "I think I won't be of much use here."
"I could use someone to practice on. Why not myself?"
"Of course, my judgment would be slightly biased…"
"Sod it. I'm not asking for your advice. Just tell me if it sounds not too confusing. I want to be convincing. Gods, I feel like a… a student…"
Sariss reached for another part of her costume and began putting it on. "Forgive me, Professor—." She winced and shook herself. She wanted to apologize and not beg for mercy before a judge. "I am sorry. I was acting like—." Equally bad. Mentally slapping herself she started over. "I am sorry… that I gave you the impression—."
"Very good, dear."
"Thank you. Oh! Now I've forgotten what it was that I said!"
"You said you were sorry that you gave me the impression…"
"Oh, not you! But thanks anyway." Sariss bit her lip in thought, as she fastened the headscarf on her hair, which loosely fell down her shoulders in perfectly straight tresses this time.
"I am sorry that I gave you the impression that… That what? Undermining his authority was what he had called it…" Sariss muttered. "The impression that I was undermining your authority? That's good. Short, practical, matter-of-factly. Er… I didn't intend to do so… That's not it… It was the last thing on my mind. Better. And I'm sorry for having it made sound like that. I think I've got it now. What do you think? Hey!" Her reflection had fallen asleep. "If I could use seven years of rotten luck I'd have smashed you ages ago," she muttered.
The Mirror-Sariss snored.
"I do not snore! You! You, mirror! Wake up!"
It jerked awake. "What? Oh… Lovely speech, lovely really—."
"Oh, shut up and serve your purpose. I need to finish my apology and my costume. At least try to act like the reflection you're intended to be."
Sariss fumbled on her clothing. "…having it made sound like that," she muttered. "That's not enough. It doesn't flow. I need an appropriate—." She froze, having just put the finishing touch to her costume and hair. That's it! "My choice of words was inappropriate…" she trailed off, the following words only mouthing to herself, as she swept out of the doorway to make her way down to the party, which was about to take place in the Great Hall.
~*~*~
The Great Hall was decked out in Hallowe'en decoration. Hagrid's huge pumpkins had been set up all around the dance floor and live bats swarmed over the enchanted ceiling which displayed a cloudless, starry night. Smaller pumpkins hovered in the places that were usually occupied by myriads of floating candles, providing light through the scary faces that had been carved into them.
And everywhere were costumed people. Vampires, angels, devils, ghouls, some sort of greenish, alien-looking costumes Sariss couldn't tell what they were—they were just too alien—and many more. The red-haired Miss Weasley had even donned on a golden, fluffy-looking costume with magically fluttering wings on it, the Golden Snitch. Thus, Harry Potter merely had to wear his Quidditch robes and voilà! the Seeker could catch the Snitch effortlessly.
Sariss kept throwing glances in direction of the doors of the Great Hall, intending to intercept Snape as soon as he came into her line of sight. She'd get it over with as quickly as possible. The situation had become unbearable. The tension was wearing on her. It had to stop. And if, finally, being the wiser head meant to say 'I'm sorry' in a small voice and then scurry away, she'd do it.
"Ah, Sariss! How lovely to see you here!" Dumbledore came over and greeted her. "And what a lovely costume you're wearing. Pray tell, what does it represent? A gypsy woman?"
"Lacking any better ideas I decided to go as a witch—or rather a witch pretending to be a Muggle pretending to be a witch," Sariss answered, taking a close look at Dumbledore's costume. A Greek god. Poseidon, she assumed, because of the trident he held in one hand.
"A bit avant-garde, isn't it?" said McGonagall who was dressed like Thetis, the goddess of the sea, with all those brooches of sea creatures decorating and folding the white-golden garment into intricate pleats. She was very much complimenting Dumbledore by having chosen that particular costume.
"I wouldn't know. It was the first thought that struck my mind and I tend to stick to the choices once I've made my mind up," Sariss replied. "By the way, I like your costumes very much, Professors. Had I known you intended to delve into the depth of Greek mythology I just might have dropped my idea of a costume and joined you."
"And which myth would you have chosen, dear? Perhaps Med—?" McGonagall began, then slapped her forehead. "I'm sorry. Didn't think before speaking. Must come with age."
Sariss smirked, quickly glancing at the as of yet Snape-less doorway. "Then I must be much older than the two of you put together—but there's no need to apologize. Unlike of what most people think of me, I do have a sense of humour. Not in the particular situation but in retrospect I think it did have a certain entertainment-value," she said. "So I might as well have masked myself as Medusa and turned you to stone as you laid eyes on my 'terrible beauty'."
"I would trust you to overdo it with your costume," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, a broad grin on his face, as Sariss once again chanced a glance in direction of the doorway where—.
There he is.
"Excuse me, Professors, there's something I must do." She walked towards Snape as fast as she could without breaking into an all too obvious run. She must reach him before he crossed the Great Hall and she'd find herself surrounded by curious stares.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in—.
Quiet!
"Professor Snape?" She'd managed to hold him up when he was still near the exit.
"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow at her.
Sariss would have loved to wipe this barely visible—but nonetheless present—smirk off his face.
Maybe it comes with the costume…
"A word, please," she said instead.
"What is it, Miss Ravon?" He'd done it again. 'Miss Ravon,' he'd said and in such a self-satisfied tone of voice. It greatly annoyed her that he didn't think of her as an equal—after all, she was a teacher, too! But Sariss swallowed her anger. I won't let you get me this time. There was no one who could make her lose control over her tongue so quickly as he.
If only I could sense more than this always latently present anger… He's too good at guarding his emotions.
And that when you rely on that talent of yours so much.
"I wanted to apologize," she said softly.
"You want to what?" He sounded incredulous.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
No idea. Continue…
"Apologize for what I said quite some time ago."
"What was it you said again?"
"Don't go there. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"Humour me."
She sighed. Why did he make it even harder for her? Walking up to him and even starting this conversation had been difficult enough. In fact, it had become more and more difficult by every passing day, but she would never admit this to him, of course, not now anyway. And what did he want now? Did he want her to prostrate herself before him, the great Potions master, former Death Eater and thickhead extraordinaire?
Sariss took a deep breath and began to speak. "I am sorry that I gave you the impression I was undermining your authority. The last thing on my mind was to do that. And I am sorry for having made it sound like that."
Sounded good, dear.
Shouldn't he say something now? Hmm. Then not.
Right. Let's continue, get it over with. No use putting together a speech and then not finishing its recital, is it?
"My choice of words was inappropriate, and I do apologize for not having been able to express myself a bit more diplomatically."
Grabthar's hammer! Merlin's beard! Medusa's hairdo! After a few words he could have interrupted her and said that he understood and that it was all right. Instead, he made her feel as though she were still a student! Again! But the point was, when she had been a student, he hadn't been like that. Never.
Professor, are you listening to a single word I say? she thought.
She continued, not looking in his face. It would have been unbearable. She knew how he looked at people he despised. It was enough to imagine the look he must be giving her; she had no need to see it. "I don't want any bad blood between us. After all, we're on the same side. If we start clawing at each other for no reason at all, who needs Voldemort?" She inwardly patted her shoulder in approval of the fact that this thought had suddenly sprung to her mind without her having to struggle for words as she had done earlier in her chambers. Usually, she was not good at improvising… But she definitely had a point. Even he must see this.
But there was no answer.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she said. It was not unexpected that he didn't answer to something as logical as that. So she thought, she might make it easier for him. "It was wrong of me to say those things." It physically hurt her to say that—because she hadn't been wrong. At no point—or so she thought.
But from him came nothing.
This was getting ridiculous. How large an opening did he need to squeeze a 'Forget it' or an 'I understand' through?
"Forgive me," she whispered. "Please."
She bent her head and focused on her hands that were fidgeting around with an ornament on her skirt.
Again, silence.
This is hopeless.
She might as well leave before she started to cry with humiliation and fury and disappointment. That anyone would throw away an apology like he did now was beyond her. Her eyes were beginning to sting. A distinct lump formed in her throat. She wanted to scream at him; she wanted to shake him.
"For heaven's sake, Snape! Say something!"
"Anything else?"
"What?" She looked up, puzzled. His silky voice had startled her when he finally answered to her apologies. She had stopped expecting an answer at all. "No, I think that was all I had to say. If… if you'll excuse me… Professor… I'll have to look for what's left of my dignity now…"
"I don't think I'll excuse you, Miss Ravon."
She groaned softly. Did he have any idea how much he was wearing on her nerves already? "What else is it that you want?"
"Would a sign of good will be too much to ask for?"
"I beg your pardon?" she asked suspiciously.
What did he mean with that?
"You owe me a dance," he stated and held out his hand for her to take.
Sariss's jaw must have hit the floor along with her eyes that must have popped out of her skull. She stared at him open-mouthed. "W-w-what?" she stuttered.
"You heard me."
"Er… I…"
"I take that as a yes," he said and actually had the nerve to grab her wrist and pull her towards the dance floor.
Lacking any better ideas, Sariss thought she might as well do as he had asked.
Asked? Requested? Yeah, right… she thought sarcastically.
That's one way to put it. The other is that he doesn't leave you a choice.
'A sign of good will' he said…
I heard it. A nice way of avoiding to say 'Do it or else…'
~*~*~
Quite impressive. It had taken her longer than he would ever have expected to apologize. If she hadn't done that now, he thought, he would have done it very soon. She was very good at ignoring people, so he had noticed. Eight weeks of completely ignoring him. Quite an achievement, considering they were, so to speak, neighbours at mealtimes—although, he had to admit that he'd noticed her repeatedly skipping breakfast or dinner.
Her little speech had quite impressed him; he couldn't deny that.
In fact, he was thinking about what to reply. It was strange that he couldn't think of anything at the moment. It must be that strawberry scent. It was fruity and very faint, but at the same time, it seemed so incredibly sweet and heady that it seemed to prevent him from thinking about anything else. He didn't even listen to what she was saying anymore.
"Forgive me," she said softly. "Please."
Maybe it was her tone of voice or the fact that her shoulders had slumped considerably… Severus was ripped out of the delights that had infiltrated his mind on account of her scent and voice. The voice that sounded unutterably small now, almost pleading.
He almost wanted to say that he was sorry, too.
"For heaven's sake, Snape! Say something!" It was some sort of shouted whisper. A desperate whisper.
"Anything else?" he said finally. A Snape didn't apologize, no matter how much he or she felt like it.
"What?" Sariss looked up, puzzled. "No, I think that was all I had to say. If… if you'll excuse me… Professor… I'll have to look for what's left of my dignity now…"
She looked close to tears. Furious that he had practically made her crawl at his feet and beg for his mercy. Nothing would change if she left now. She'd still be ignoring him and with much more reason to do so than before.
"I don't think I'll excuse you, Miss Ravon."
"What else is it that you want?" she asked exasperatedly.
"Would a sign of good will be too much to ask for?" He tried to sound affable, but felt he failed miserably.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked suspiciously.
A sign of good will? Nice choice of words. Leaves so much to the imagination…
"You owe me a dance," he quickly clarified himself—although her suspicion wasn't quite unjustified. Indeed, now that he thought about it… But no. If he ever wanted the image in the Mirror to become real, he mustn't even think about resorting to such means. Not that he'd ever honestly believe that such would work with her.
He held out his hand for her to take.
She stared at him disbelievingly, her kissable mouth opening and closing several times before she managed to stutter, "W-w-what?"
"You heard me."
"Er… I…"
"I take that as a yes," he said.
Severus unceremoniously snatched her arms and drew her out on the dance floor. This was his chance to apologize without having to say the words. Severus Snape didn't apologize like that. Actually, he had no idea how he would apologize if he did it. By sending her flowers? Ridiculous.
He'd try to be nice to her. How was he supposed to ever get closer to her when he kept up the pretence of being unapproachable? How could he get her to be like she'd been before he'd caused this mess that had started as soon as they'd laid eyes upon each other on September 1st? Even Severus realized that if he wanted to only get near to what he'd seen in the Mirror they'd have to start over. How was he supposed to convince her to do just that—without saying the words?
Well, for a start, he had her with him. Check. She didn't run—for fear he'd be angry with her again? Anyway, check.
But she was much too stiff in his arms. She almost didn't let him steer her properly over the dance floor. She clearly wished to be somewhere else. Well, how could she not? If only Severus knew how to clear up the mess he'd caused. Why had he been treating her the way he had, in the first place? He couldn't remember a reason that had anything to do with her personally.
This would prove quite difficult.
Perhaps you should talk to her?
As if I hadn't thought of that myself…
Severus set himself the task to try and establish something that would resemble a halfway decent conversation, just to demonstrate that the thundercloud that had hung over them was no more.
"So…" he began. "What is this costume you wear supposed to mean?" She looked a bit like a gypsy woman with that patchwork skirt of hers and her hair—it glimmered in all shades of brown and red as the Great Hall was lighted by a ridiculous amount of hollowed-out pumpkins. She'd bound it back with a headscarf, and large golden earrings caught the light and reflected it beautifully. She was wearing very red lipstick; her eyes were rimmed with kohl, her eyelids painted a dark violet eye-shadow; her lashes looked incredibly long and thick and black. That made her eyes look very large and almost hypnotizing.
All of her costume seemed to underline the temperament Severus had gotten acquainted with. She had a gypsy temper despite the fact that she could hardly have any gypsy blood. She was, after all, a Ravon. And the Ravons had Welsh and Irish ancestors. The Ravon family tree was traceable way back to the time of the Hogwarts Great Four, right back to Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
Her temper. He found it very well possible that he'd come to adore it—if she'd let him…
"I'm a Muggle witch," she said curtly.
"Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"
"I am a contradiction in terms," she replied dryly.
Clearly, there's a certain sense of humour beneath the pretty façade… I keep thinking—
And that when she's so much more than just pretty and intelligent and—
Oh stop it! You all but had to force her to even dance with you. Quite understandable the way you reacted, old chap.
Should I have made it easy for her?
Perhaps…
That's not my style, making it easier for others when they don't make it easier for me. Not even when it's her who I'd give anything in the world to—
Raving egomaniac.
What was that?
Nothing.
Good. Now shut up. I'm talking to her.
Try to be charming at least—although I still think that perhaps it's not such a good idea to get involved—
Put. A. Sock. In. It.
"Believe it or not, this hasn't escaped my notice," he drawled.
"Is that so?"
"Indeed."
"Well, there's no need to ask what your costume's supposed to mean… nice eye-teeth, by the way." How could she sound so detached and cold all the time? That conversation was going quite nicely—if one paid no attention to the way the words were spoken. Anyone who would have read the words would have thought, 'Why, that's small talk.' But with that definite edge to her voice…
Well, Severus should know how she could seem so detached. He only hoped that she was only on the outside…
He was fairly sure that if he managed to make her smile, he'd be reaching the next stage of his barely existing relationship with her.
"Thank you, Milady. And to humour the Count himself…" Snape lifted her hand and blew a kiss on it. "I've crossed oceans of—."
"I think this will do," Sariss said frostily, pulling her hand back very quickly. Her eyes were blazing again. She looked even more like the witch she'd wanted to be tonight. "I regard my offences atoned for," she almost growled. He found her even more breathtaking every second that was passing during the moments she spoke. "If you would be so kind as to excuse me now, I still have this remains-of-my-dignity-business to attend to, now more than ever."
Ouch! That hurt. Oh, but look at her…
Looks like you moved in for the kill too early. You weren't even close.
I don't think this is funny.
Neither do I. But you're the sensitive part of us. I'm just the analytical and critical part.
You forgot 'annoying'.
You call me annoying? That's a good one.
I thought I was being the sarcastic one. How come you have it, too?
Beats me. Must have rubbed off on me.
Great. A bickering contest with myself.
"I am not your inferior," she said softly, so as not to be overheard by someone who needn't know that they had somewhat of a row again. "Don't ever treat me like that again." Then the woman rushed out of the Great Hall in a flurry of multicoloured robes. The Muggle witch. The contradiction in terms. The deepest desire of his heart.
He had to fight the urge to run after her, snatch her and simply…
But he didn't. He merely stared after her until she couldn't be seen any longer—pretending that he had not just been left standing there.
~*~*~
Harry saw himself walk through a labyrinth of tunnels and caves. It was dark. Merely a few lonely torches chased away the gloom and that they did only when a crossing or a turn was ahead.
"Where am I?" Harry whispered to himself, looking around in confusion for a moment. "Hello?" he shouted. "Anybody here?" The only answer was his multiplied voice resounding from the walls.
Then he shrugged. Well, he'd have to follow the path and somehow find out where it was leading. It was the logical thing to do. But it would be nice to have a bit more light… Where's my wand? he thought. He didn't have it anywhere in his robes, which was strange because it had become as much of a habit to him to slip it into his pocket as putting on his glasses in the morning was.
After several minutes—time seemed to have no meaning—Harry perceived the sound of a familiar voice. He hurried along the tunnel and crept around the corner. Now he could understand what was being said. He decided to rather stay hidden.
"You!" a female voice shouted, echoing in a larger tunnel or even a small chamber.
"I'm afraid so, sweetheart," answered a hissing voice. It made Harry's hair stand on end, because he knew whom this voice belonged to. "A pity so much time has passed, isn't it?"
"I hate you."
"Why so harsh words? You've become pretty, and you're very powerful, not as powerful as myself but granted, you have your… ahem… hidden assets."
"You're not real."
"Am I not? Then why are you shaking?"
"You're not here. You're just a dream. I'm having a nightmare," she said.
A dream? Yes. This could be another one of those strange dreams Harry had sometimes when his scar was hurting… Harry realized that this might indeed be a dream… But whose was it? His own? Voldemort's?
"I assure you, Sariss, although this is some sort of dream, it is quite real—in both our minds."
Or was it—Professor Ravon's nightmare?
"So you're at Hogwarts, aren't you? Clever move to return there. But it's not as safe as it might seem to you."
"It had nothing to do with you!"
"You're hiding there, aren't you? Or have you just grown nostalgic, even at your young age?"
"Get out of my dream!"
"You have no dreams. You have memories."
Harry, meanwhile, had crept closer and could see them now clearly in the torchlight. Voldemort, a bony creature, clad all in black. And Professor Ravon who was as pale as her nightgown. She might have been a ghost. She might as well be the Grey Lady—if it weren't for her hair to reflect the flickering light of the torches as it was.
"Get out of my mind!" she shouted across the small chamber, her voice echoing several times because of—as Harry thought it must be—the domed ceiling. Harry could hear the sound of water dripping somewhere.
"And what if I don't?" Voldemort hissed, amused.
"I'll make you. And one day, I swear, I'll kill you and if it's the last thing I do," she replied, her voice was shaking, but the reason for that might be that she was freezing. Although the nightgown was long, it was silken and didn't look like it would provide very much warmth.
"You cannot kill me just as easily. More and more of the wizarding world surrenders to me. They fight; they die—a lesson I had to teach you, too. Others hide from me. And now you're hiding too."
"I'm not hiding from you!"
Voldemort took several long strides towards her until he was standing merely a few feet away from her. She took a step back.
He chuckled. "See? And that when it's only a dream. You're still the scared little girl you once were…" He caught her arm and drew her roughly towards him, clutching her throat in one of those long spidery hands that Harry knew quite well himself. "Still thinking you can kill me?" he hissed.
"Professor!" Harry couldn't merely watch any longer and jumped up and entered the chamber. Yes, it was indeed a chamber.
"Harry," Voldemort hissed and threw Professor Ravon, who had been busy prying his fingers away from her throat, away from him like a doll. Then he massaged his fingers—Professor Ravon seemed to be stronger than she looked—before he turned his attention to Harry. "You here, too? This is almost like meeting old friends, isn't it? The three of us united, what a coincidence."
"Harry, you shouldn't be here. Wake up!" the Professor shouted. She scrambled to her feet. "Wake up! Wake up! This is neither your dream nor mine. It's his. His dream, his rules. Wake up."
"Neither one of you can wake up until I let you—although it wasn't in my plans to have you here tonight, Harry—."
"Wake up!" the Professor shouted again, behind Voldemort's back reaching out with her hand so her palm faced Harry and muttering a spell that sent Harry backwards into the tunnel.
He felt himself slam against a surface and jerked awake, confused at what had happened. A dream, he remembered. And Voldemort had been in it, nothing new there. Professor Ravon had been there, too… What did she have to do with the Dark Lord? Strange. If only Harry remembered it more clearly. But with every second that went by, the images faded until only an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach remained—and a slight throb in the scar on his forehead.
~*~*~
Afternoon the next day, Sariss decided to take a walk around the grounds and noticed with delight that some team was practising Quidditch. Watching them practice might prove a distraction from some things that were going on in her mind.
As Sariss sat down in the empty stands, she noticed that it was the Gryffindor team. Harry Potter was down there. Harry, who had been in that strange dream she couldn't remember as clearly as she would have liked to. It had been different from her usual ones—save for the presence of the Dark Lord. He'd always been the ruler of her nightmares, her very own dream master.
However, she knew that the last dream had been different. Very much different—and it had seemed so clear. So real! Usually, they tended to be rather faint and she'd wake up without any lasting memory save from knowing it had been the same dream she'd always had. She didn't have to remember every single one. She simply knew by feeling that it had been the one again. Not so this time. It had been more than disturbing. The dream in itself had been disturbing. But in addition to that, there had been something distinctly alarming when she'd looked into the mirror that morning. Her throat had looked as if fingers had squeezed and bruised the skin there… The traces were still visible. They were the reason why she'd donned on a robe with a sufficiently high collar. It hid them very well. So she wouldn't have to explain them. How to explain them to anyone else anyway when she couldn't even explain them to herself? Well, now she wouldn't have to.
However, the question remained: Had she done it herself, in her sleep, her panic having overpowered her? Or had it been…
How much of the dream could she conveniently file under 'Simply another nightmare starring him?'
She couldn't help but feeling a bit frightened of sleeping…
Enough of this. You came out here to not reflect on that now.
Right. Quidditch practice. Let's see if they're as good as I've been told.
And they were really good, she perceived as a red-haired blur swished across the pitch and lobbed the Quaffle through the hoop another redhead had been supposed to guard—but had been pelted into by a Bludger before he could stop the girl from scoring. Red hair. Weasley. You had to be a Weasley if you wanted your hair to be that red—or try one of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' latest invention: Ginny Gems.
There seemed to be always at least one Weasley on the Gryffindor team.
Ronald Weasley. She'd have a word with him about the essay he'd written about werewolves as soon as the practice session was over—that would be better than holding him up after class—which it was after another hour.
Harry Potter, the Captain and Seeker, was having a few words with his team-mates afterwards, and then—the sun was already setting—they prepared to make their way back towards the castle.
Sariss waited for them to leave the pitch before she approached them.
"Mr Weasley, I'd like to have a word with you," she said, looking up into the boy's face. Goodness, in class he doesn't look that tall at all.
The intimidatingly tall boy looked almost frightened. Somehow, she was startled by that. "What? Now?" he stuttered and blushed.
"Yes," Sariss tried a smile, "it's about that werewolf-essay you wrote."
"So… what about it?" he said nervously.
"Don't worry. It was not bad. Seven out of ten—."
He breathed a sigh of relief.
"—but I'd like to see more of your knowledge which will require you to write a tad smaller than you write usually. You could easily get full marks on such topics if you did that. You have some quite interesting trains of thought… Well, you see, it's not merely twelve inches for nothing, is it?"
"Um… Okay."
"Good, since otherwise I'd have to make you write twice as much." Something occurred to Sariss. "And you might try to tell Miss Granger that it would save her much time if she only wrote twice as much as necessary and not four times as much."
That managed to magick a mischievous grin onto the boy's face. He nodded.
"Where is she, by the way? Rumour has it that she's your girlfriend?"
His face went almost as crimson as his hair. This was fun.
"She's in the library, studying, I s'pose."
"The library? I myself used to spend much more time there than was healthy. You might try to keep her from forgetting her friends over too many books sometime."
"Uh-huh."
"Alright then. I'm off. Don't forget what I said about the size of your letters. A tad smaller." She turned to go. "Oh and I must say that you're a fabulous Keeper, Mr Weasley. Too bad that I'm a Slytherin. Have a—."
"Ron, come on, what's keeping you so long?" Harry Potter's voice shouted from somewhere. Its owner came into view a few seconds later.
"Oh, good evening, Professor. You've been watching?"
"Good evening, Mr Potter. A great team you have there."
"Thank you, Professor." Potter didn't look half as uncomfortable as Weasley. That was a comfort. "Um, Ron, you coming?"
"What? Yeah, sure… If you're finished, Professor?"
Sariss nodded. "Now look at the time. Dinner must be served in a few minutes. We'd better hurry."
~*~*~
She greeted him with a neutral "Good evening, Professor Snape", when she took her seat next to him.
"Good evening," he said in reply, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. He could see her profile. She didn't look at him; she didn't speak any further. Since she had apologized, she at least greeted him again. She also looked at him again. He never actually saw her look at him, but somehow he felt her gaze flicker over him sometimes—and then, as soon as he couldn't keep himself from checking any longer, she had looked away already. He must be imagining it—although Severus had always been very sensitive on that sector. He knew when he was being watched. He knew the feel of a pair of eyes staring at the back of his head. However, he'd grant himself the benefit of the doubt. After all, this feeling that she was watching him… Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his conscience after all kept nagging at him because he hadn't actually been receptive to her apology…
But it was a comfort that she spoke to him at all even though all he wanted was to indulge in a conversation with her. A conversation that would lead to another conversation and another and another until it, in turn, would lead to one that would only be interrupted by the occasional kiss…
Yeah, right. Insert sound of someone snorting derisively here.
By a kiss, as he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised. He couldn't stop imagining it, couldn't stop seeing it in his mind's eye. He felt if he were to concentrate hard enough on it, he could even feel it.
If she were capable of reading his thoughts, she'd be so not amused—or would she laugh at him contemptuously? He refused to imagine her that way. He rather pictured her blushing deeply crimson and smiling shyly or staring at him disbelievingly. He didn't dare imagine more than that.
If only she weren't such a shrew. He almost chuckled when his mind provided that expression. A shrew. How appropriate. He'd like to tame her.
Tame… That brought another one of those long buried, long forgotten, evil memories to the surface. They always came when he thought about something pleasant. Bang! Let me present to you: This. Actually, it was one of his earliest—and one of his worst—memories…
'What's this bird for, Father?'
'It will deliver the mail.'
'But… What kind of bird is this? It looks dangerous… Is it a hawk? Or is it--.'
'A falcon. I shall inform your tutors to teach you about the different families of birds.'
'But--a falcon? Owls are—'
'Do you think I don't know that?! I'm going to tame it. Everyone can have an owl. I want a falcon.'
'Why, Father?'
'Because I can afford it.'
'But it looks very wild to me…'
'One thing you have to learn for life, boy, is that you have to set yourself special tasks—even when life doesn't set them for you. I'm going to have it tame in no time. I will force it to obey.'
'How, Father?'
'Like everyone else.'
Like everyone else. He had been right. Everyone.
Severus chanced a look at Sariss. Had she noticed his turmoil? Strange, how those long-gone things tended to surface sometimes. She seemed not to have sensed anything. Good. That meant Severus still had sufficiently cloaked his emotions. With her around you had to be very careful.
She seemed to be lost in thoughts herself. Did she have as many unpleasant memories as he had? Frankly, he didn't think so, although she might come close. Being an Auror wasn't pink clouds and candy, after all. And she had been an Auror for seven or eight years…
It was not a very pleasant memory, the way his father had tamed the falcon. Not pleasant at all. He refused to recall the details about the bird's so-called 'lessons'.
After a while, the bird had been too scared to disobey any longer. It had followed his every command. It had listened to no one else. Severus had been merely a child and had been frightened to death whenever the bird swept into the room, delivering the return letters to his father or mother.
Severus could hardly remember her. Only fragments. Little things. Details. He harboured them like jewels. She had died early. Indeed, she'd been slowly dying for years. Father had brought the best mediwizards to the castle to take care of her—although at that time, Severus hadn't known about that. A house-elf had constantly been by her side. She'd had the whole west-wing to herself. Severus's father had—at least to the boy's knowledge—not set foot there during the months she had been awaiting death. It was not likely that he had ever visited her there. Had Sinclair Snape ever loved her? Had Serena Carter-Snape ever loved her husband? Severus didn't know. Severus still had no idea what had made them marry each other. What had been their motives? Whose decision had it been?
Severus had been visiting her every day, not knowing that she was virtually lying on her deathbed—even though she was walking around as if she were fine. But she hadn't been fine.
She had hidden it well. Her lips had always been of a healthy red; her pitch-black hair had always been shiny and beautiful. Her gentle grey eyes had always sparkled when he'd come to see her.
Severus still remembered that he'd often bound her raven hair into thin and very long plaits. His small hands had so loved to play with her hair. And she'd always smiled a brilliant smile when he'd done that and kissed his cheeks or his forehead. She'd been the kindest and most beautiful being in the world. He'd loved her. He'd adored her.
And then, one day, she had been dead—Severus hadn't even seen her dead body—and he had found himself sitting in her empty bed, sobbing and clutching the cushion that still smelt like her, like a bouquet of flowers, when the falcon had swept in and landed on the foot of the bed, its sharp talons scratching over the wood. The six-year-old boy had stared at it, not daring to move for a long time until an equally scared house-elf had shooed it away.
Then his father had entered the room, the room he hadn't even come near for months, and ordered the house-elf to take his dead wife's belongings away. He'd found the sobbing child that was Severus, had looked at him coldly, slapped him across the face and told him to "stop crying immediately" because "Snapes do not shed tears." Severus had been too shocked to go on crying anyway.
The following months had been hard. Severus had no one to talk to anymore. Even though his mother had rarely spoken, she had at least listened. Sometimes she had even sung to him. He could still recall the sound of her voice. Always soft, always gentle. She had been somewhat of a sacred space to the lonely boy. The light that drove the shadow of his father away for a few hours. A more than welcome diversion from endless hours of being taught things that a boy his age shouldn't even have heard of. Among many other things, his father had been very skilled in the Dark Arts.
Countless times, Severus had watched the night sky, wishing with all his heart that his father had been in his mother's place. Life would have been good if his father had died and his mother had lived. It certainly wouldn't have become such a mess. He wouldn't have become such a mess. Maybe he wouldn't even have been a Slytherin. Maybe he'd have been a Ravenclaw instead, just like his mother? Most certainly he wouldn't have become a Death Eater. He wouldn't have projected his hatred for his father to other people. He wouldn't have become so many things if he'd never known his father.
It was an explanation. But it was no excuse.
Sinclair Snape was one of the main reasons why Severus's life had taken the turns it had. Because he'd tamed his son just as he had tamed the bird. Severus had once been good at obeying the Dark Lord, too…
But as to the falcon… The falcon had met a different fate.
It had always been there when the little boy that Severus had been was studying under the eyes of his father. And just like him, it had always watched its surroundings with its piercing black eyes, as if it were waiting for an unobserved moment to rise into the air again and take its vengeance out on Severus, furious that it couldn't hurt his father. Severus had always feared the bird for what its pointed beak and its sharp talons could do. His father had never even considered clipping them. He'd wanted the bird with all his weapons, which he would force it not to use. Severus had been frightened.
Only later had he realized that he and the bird had something in common. They both were bound to obey. They both obeyed for the same reasons. That had been the reason why Severus never liked seeing his father train the bird—and he had been forced to watch. It reminded him too much of himself—although the little boy Severus wouldn't have been able to express it like that.
Anyway, a falcon was not a suitable animal for doing those tasks, he'd realized. It was wild and wanted nothing more than freedom. It wanted to hunt. It didn't want to be domesticated.
Severus had then, one day—despite his fear—removed the charm that had kept the bird from escaping into the wilderness and tried to set it free. It had merely tilted its head and looked at him. Severus had prompted it to leave. It had refused.
That had established a bond between the bird and the boy. He had been careful not to let his father see him when he stroked the bird or fed it some treats he'd nicked from the kitchen. (His father had always disapproved of eating when it wasn't at mealtimes.) It had come to love him; Severus had even given it a name, which it hadn't had before. Sinclair Snape had always merely called it 'bird' or 'falcon' or 'you'. Severus had called it Falx, because its beak was shaped like a scythe. He had looked it up in a Latin dictionary and found it somewhere near 'Falco', the Latin name of the falcon. He'd thought it too obvious a choice and had then discovered 'Falx'. Nice and short.
And then (Severus had no idea how), his father had noticed something—and killed the bird. He'd killed it wordlessly, but not without throwing Severus a glance that said, "You triggered this. Had you not befriended it, it would still be alive." Yes, he'd wanted the bird to serve him, to obey. He'd wanted to exert power over it. He'd never wanted the bird to stay at Snape castle because it wanted to, because it had found an ally, a friend.
Why was it that Severus now remembered this? He had been hardly seven years old, but it seemed that this experience had shaped him more than anything else his father had ever done to him. Perhaps it had even made him who he was now.
For years, he hadn't thought about it. How come that it now surfaced?
She'd made it surface. She'd made him remember. Indeed, she made him rethink his life. That must be why she managed to make him so angry. He realized that he was more like his father than he was comfortable with. Even though he had been dead for more than fifteen years by now, Severus had never really mourned him. He'd actually been indifferent to his death. He hadn't attended the funeral. When—or rather if—he visited the crypt, he did not even look at his father's coffin. But on his mother's coffin, he always placed a rose and a lily. Sometimes both white ones. Sometimes the rose was red. He realized that, for years, he hadn't been there to do that.
He hadn't set foot there for years. Just like his father hadn't set foot in the west-wing…
But he was not exactly like his father. He refused to be like him. Now more than ever before.
He wanted her, Sariss, yes. But not to obey. No, Severus wanted her to—
His mind tripped over the word.
He actually wanted her to… love… him.
Next chapter:
Sariss goes to pieces, Severus feels sorry, Sariss wishes Severus a happy birthday and teaches a bit of wandless magic. The first Quidditch match of the season, a few kind words and a tentative gesture.