Author's note: This time I must thank Blaise A. Snape (author of 'Princess of the Darkness' GO READ IT!) for more than 'just' a review. She's built a homepage with a link to a page she's dedicated to yours truly. Me… And I'm feeling so special. My little soul-sister has built me a shrine—and also one dedicated to the absolutely adorable Mr Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman. *swoons* She also allows me to state her homepage as mine. Isn't she just the best? Here's the link: h** (let's see if ff.net removes the address if I put in these **…) Or visit my profile where I state it also. Now that the technical stuff has been dealt with… On to…
Butterfly! You're so not obsessed with AR, are you? Of course you aren't. No idea what could have given anybody the impression. Your love for his hands? Or his gorgeous 'baritone voice'? Your constant quoting of his lines? *grins* Okay, I admit I'm not a bit better. But it's not our fault that the man is so perfect and always gets the best lines, is it? There's loads of them in this story. Some of them are rather hard to find. Others are merely from one of his movies but aren't spoken by him. I challenge you to find them ALL. Good luck. And since you like long chapters… Here's one of the longest. Only chapter 18 and 22 will be longer. Loads of stuff to look forward to, eh?
One more thing: I've started posting another story. It's a work in progress, so it's likely to be rewritten once it's finished. I can already tell that I'll be changing loads of things… Because that's what happened to the story you're currently reading…
And now—after an author's note the size of some people's chapters—on to Chapter 12. Twelve, the magical number in all things HP.
Chapter 12: The Master Prophecy
Oracle of
the Delphian Domine
Witness of Adam's frailty
Seer of the master prophecy
The stellar world her betrothed
—Nightwish: Stargazers
"What was Malfoy talking about and why is he acting so different now?" Hermione asked as she poured herself another gobletful of pumpkin juice at breakfast on Friday.
"He's a Death Eater," Harry said dryly.
"I know that. But why is he suddenly being so horrible to Professor Ravon?—Granted, not openly enough to give him detention, which isn't like her, anyway. After all, she's a Slytherin as well as he himself…"
"Perhaps she's not evil enough for him?" Ginny asked through a mouth full of toast.
"That can't be it. She wasn't evil before Christmas either," Ron said.
"Look who's talking now!" Ginny exclaimed—thankfully having swallowed the bite. "I remember quite well that you said something along the lines of 'creepy' and 'strange' one day or the other."
"But I never said she was 'Evil Incarnate', did I?" Ron countered.
"Well, then let's try and find out what's going on here."
"Sure, if Malfoy knew something we didn't…" Ron began.
"That would ruin our reputation!" Harry finished, mock-scandalised.
"I'll check the library…" Hermione volunteered. "There must be a book somewhere around there that she's mentioned in. After all, she was working for the Ministry. There should at least be a Daily Prophet snippet or something." She paused thoughtfully. "Actually, her name seems familiar…"
"Sure, we've only had her teaching us for the last couple of months…" Ron helpfully pointed out.
"Shut up. You know what I mean. I meant to say that I thought her name sounded familiar the very moment Dumbledore introduced her."
"Not so many people around with such a name, are there?"
"Exactly. I must have come across it one day or the other. It rang a bell almost instantly, but I had no reason to ponder it further. After all, she was just a new teacher," said Hermione. "I'll go and see what I can find in the library as soon as I find the time to do so."
"Then it can't be in Hogwarts, A History. You know that book by heart," Harry said.
Glancing at Hermione out of the corner of his eyes Ron leant over the table towards Harry, whispering loud enough for her to hear: "She keeps repeating parts of it over and over again and whispers the paragraphs to herself when she's nervous or something."
"Kind of like a Mantra, you mean?" Harry asked.
Ron now grinned evilly at Hermione who was blushing furiously at his statement.
"I love it when she does that…" he muttered. Hermione changed from looking rather flustered to shooting Ron a death glare that would have made Snape proud. Then she composed herself enough to force out a stuttering reply: "I'm not! How would you know anyway? Since when can you read lips?"
Harry was trying hard not to burst out laughing at the fact that she had confessed that she did exactly as Ron had said. He would have loved to point out that he knew she also quoted the book in her sleep (Ron had told him so after Hermione had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace in the common room. What Ron hadn't told Harry was that Hermione had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, but Harry had suspected something like that a long time ago). If Harry mentioned that now it would most certainly result in a couple of nasty hexes with his name on them hurtling his (and Ron's) way. And if there was one thing that Hermione was good at, it was her wandwork.
Talking was out of the question now anyway since this particular action would have involved a certain amount of controlled breathing, something he couldn't even think about trying to do at the moment for he was too busy avoiding howling with laughter at Hermione's crimson-coloured face for fear she'd lose her temper at the fact that she was unintentionally providing the entertainment. He knew exactly where this conversation was heading but couldn't wipe the grin off his face. And Ginny wasn't helping either. If possible at all, she was in a state even worse than Harry and forced out a strained, "See you later, Harry. Don't want to be late for Potions…" Harry only nodded; if he opened his mouth now the last thing that would come out were words… Ginny grinned. Then she gave him a peck on the cheek, grabbed her bag and off she went…
"Oh yes, you do. All the time. Even when you're asleep." At the moment the words had slipped over Ron's lips, Harry knew he'd really hit a nerve now and thus was very impressed at Ron's ability to keep a straight face by way of comparison when the two of them had one of their 'bickering contests', as Harry had so eloquently dubbed them. Years of practice with Fred and George, he mused.
Hermione took a sip of her pumpkin juice to get some time to recover and after a deep breath, the colour of her face returning to normal, she added, "Well, even if I did, that would be none of your business anyway! You of all people could do with a closer look at some of the—."
Harry, fearing that he'd provided a good starting line for something that would turn out as another one of Ron and Hermione's Much-Ado-About-Nothing rows that usually ended with the two of them not speaking to each other for at least the whole remaining day, quickly decided to switch to distraction tactics before Ron could come up with one of those quick-witted remarks—involving words that basically came down to "bossy know-it-all"—that made Hermione really angry. Nonetheless he had to confess that there was a grain of truth in that statement; of course he'd never admit that with Hermione in overhearing range which brought to mind the troll incident in their very first year that had kind of formed a base for their friendship. But that had been a long time ago and now the last thing he needed was a replay of what had happened in their third year when Ron had accused Crookshanks of having turned Scabbers into some sort of a midnight snack.
"Er…" He racked his brain for something to say. "We're… going to be late for classes…?" he chanced finally, applying an innocent impression to his face.
Hermione immediately dropped the subject, realizing they'd been on the verge on a major row again, inwardly cursing her temper. Ron breathed a sigh of relief. The two of them looked at Harry. Hermione with a look of pure joy on her face at the prospect of another Arithmancy lesson, Ron—facing Divination lessons with Professor Sybill Trelawney—with a look that ranged somewhere between disgust, desperation and pure unabashed horror, that made a smile creep across Hermione's face as she chanced a glance at him. Despite the fact that she took her studies very seriously, she had never developed great ambitions concerning the subtle—but very unreliable—art of Divination.
Then she got up and leaning down to Ron and giving him a peck on the cheek she said, "See you later in Care of Magical Creatures—and don't make up too horrible death scenarios…" Hermione swished out of the Great Hall like a black-robed whirlwind.
Ron turned to Harry a mock-thoughtful look on his face: "I wonder what she meant by that…"
Harry groaned as he grabbed his book bag. "And I wonder what Trelawney has in store for me today. Do you have any idea if there's a single horrible event that leads to my untimely death left that she hasn't covered twice and thrice yet?"
"Maybe she really should find herself a hobby or something…"
"She doesn't need another one, she already has one. Predicting tragedies with famous Harry Potter in a leading role," he muttered sarcastically in a way that rivalled Draco Malfoy's infamous drawl.
"Look at it that way. You're one of the few people who might be able to use my favourite quote one day," Ron said brightly.
"What's that?"
"Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
Harry chuckled. "I should have thought of that when I fell off the broomstick—Damn it, we're going to be late if we don't hurry. And I mean hurry."
They got up and headed in direction of North Tower. At fast pace as it was quite a distance away from the Great Hall.
Ron suddenly spoke up, slightly gasping since they were running now, "Er, Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"What's a Mantra?"
Harry rolled his eyes making a mental note as to buy Ron a dictionary for his birthday present—but then again, he already had Hermione… "Not important. Speed up a bit, will you?"
~*~*~
They clambered up the ladder to the stifling hot and heavy-perfumed classroom where the other students were already assembled. Since Harry and Ron had run all the way towards North Tower they were now slightly out of breath—but right on time. "That—was—close—," Harry gasped. Ron only nodded his agreement, and they slumped down into their seats, already starting to feel drowsy even though they hadn't been in the room for two minutes.
Harry opened his book bag and set Forewarned is Forearmed: How to Prepare Yourself for the Unexpectable onto the table along with a sheet of parchment and a well-used Quick-Quotes-Quill that hovered on its tip, apparently eager to write down everything that would be said.
Ever since the beginning of his fifth year Harry had taken to bringing a Quick-Quotes-Quill to his Divination lessons—just in case Professor Trelawney had another one of her 'fits', as Ron had dubbed the incident that had happened at Harry's Divination exam in their third year—to make sure to catch every word of a possible prophecy. Actually, it had been Rita Skeeter who had inspired him to do so—but Harry had been careful to choose a Quill that only wrote down what was really said and didn't have a mind of its own. One thing Dumbledore had taught him and which Harry had learnt through Voldemort's more or less stalking him was that you needed to be prepared. Always. Who could tell when and if that old fraud would state something important again? Unlike last time, Harry would have something tangible; proof; evidence; something that one could examine more closely and perhaps even interpret so that it made some sense.
Ron had called him paranoid when he'd started doing so and—by the end of their sixth year—had modified his previous statement to 'obsessive-compulsive.' Harry was fairly sure that Ron hadn't actually grasped the meaning of that expression—Hell, Harry had had to look up a definition himself to understand what Ron had said and if it was as insulting as it sounded. Harry had then decided he'd been called worse before and added it to a mental list he had dubbed 'Document of Defamation' where it ranked somewhere between 'thick-headed' and 'so full of yourself that [insert something creative here]'—which left only two sources for research of that kind: Hermione or the Library. In that case, Harry mused, there wasn't really a difference; 'Hermione' and 'Library' were two words so often used in the same sentence that there wasn't much of a difference between 'asking Hermione' and 'looking it up in the Library' anymore.
Professor Trelawney stepped out of the shadows, her many rings and other jewellery glittering in the flickering light of the fire.
"Now that we have finished Scrying, the fates have informed me that today will be a special lesson. Today," she began the lesson in her mistiest of voices, "today we will try to pass into a trance, that is a state of high receptiveness for the supernatural forces, and make use of the Quija board to communicate with the other side. It is, of course, highly unlikely for you to make any contact with those forces, as that requires a highly trained and open mind…"
She handed out the boards and a glass to put on it upside down, while she kept droning on and on about how the incense she was burning today would help them pass into the required trance.
Harry only got tired.
"I don't think I'll ever make it into this trance thingy," Ron whispered. "It's much more likely for me to fall directly into a deep, deep sleep."
"You tell me," Harry yawned. "Let's try anyway. I've seen something on TV that explained how those things work."
He set the glass into the middle of the Quija board and put his forefinger on it, gesturing for Ron to do the same.
Professor Trelawney meanwhile explained what they were supposed to do, seemingly not even noticing that Harry and Ron were already having a go at the board.
"And now?" Ron asked.
"Ask a question and the other side will answer," Harry said. "Actually, on Muggle TV they say it's your subconscious that moves the glass, but… I wouldn't know, would I?"
"Okay… Will I pass the exams?"
The glass didn't so much as tremble. Nothing.
They waited. Not even a twitch. Completely unmoving. Nothing. Zero. Nada.
"Doesn't work. I knew it was stupid," Ron said.
"Hmm…"
"Once your mind has reached a state of perceptiveness, you may ask the other side if it hears you…"
"Let's try it again," said Harry. "Maybe we can talk to Elvis."
"I don't think so," said Ron.
"Why not?"
"He's not dead. He only went home into the wizarding world. Didn't you know?"
"I thought that was only a joke."
"It isn't."
"How about… Janis Joplin?"
"Same there."
"Oh."
"Sometimes you really show that you've been raised by Muggles, you know?"
Harry shrugged. "Any other suggestions?" he asked.
"Well… not really. We could take whoever decides to answer."
"Okay, let's try again."
They concentrated hard—which was difficult since from everywhere in the room came 'Oooh's and 'Aaah's at what the boards seemed to reveal.
"Is someone there?" Harry asked, exchanging a glance with Ron. The glass didn't so much as twitch.
"This is usele—."
Ron let go of the glass and Harry followed suit. Just then it slithered over the inscription that said 'YES'.
Both students stared open-mouthed at the glass that was completely still once more.
Harry nervously licked over his suddenly parchment-dry lips. "Who… Who are you?" he whispered.
'A-F-R-I-E-N-D' it answered.
"And what's your name, friend?" asked Ron.
'F-O-R-G-O-T'
"You forgot your name? Why?"
'T-O-O-L-O-N-G-D-E-A-D-P-E-R-H-A-P-S'
"How long've you been dead?"
'D-O-N-T-K-N-O-W'
"The dead seem to have a very bad memory," Harry said.
"Did you have a family?" Ron asked.
'Y-E-S-L-O-V-E-D-M-Y-C-H-I-L-D'
"What happened to them?"
'C-A-N-T-T-E-L-L-S-T-I-L-L-A-L-I-V-E'
"How do you know?"
'N-O-T-D-E-A-D-W-O-U-L-D-V-E-S-E-E-N'
"What's their name?"
The glass was inching from left to right for a few moments as though the one guiding it were indecisive. Then it rushed to the other side of the board to come to rest on—
"Professor Trelawney?" Parvati said, her voice filled with a slight panic that made Ron and Harry completely forget about what they were supposed to be doing. "I think I…"
Harry saw her tense. (His and Ron's glass still scraped over the Quija board, albeit they paid no attention to it). Parvati gasped for breath as if she were drowning. And then she started to speak in a voice that couldn't have been more different from her normal voice—and the Quick-Quotes-Quill literally flew over the parchment, scribbling away furiously as the words poured out of her mouth:
"Only
together will they be victorious—
Different, yet so much in common—
Joining forces to vanquish a greater evil.
My enemy's enemy is my friend.
An
outstretched hand, a deadly embrace
To bring together what once was divided.
The Dark Lord shall fall; death shan't be conquered.
Past Evil shall be made undone."
She exhaled slowly, then slumped and fainted. Neville and Seamus who had been sitting close to the girls' table jumped and caught her before she could slip off the pouf she had been sitting on and gently guided her to an armchair.
She slowly opened her eyes, gradually regaining consciousness.
"What's wrong?" she asked, scanning their worried faces. "Why are you all staring at me?" She was deathly pale, her lips very white, and she shook violently. "Lavender? Seamus? Neville?"
"My dear, you must have dozed off," Professor Trelawney said. "Too deep a trance is not too good for the health of one as untrained as you are."
"Wh-what?" Parvati stuttered, helplessly looking from one anxious face to the other.
"Parvati, you just had a vision or something," Neville said gently and hesitantly took her still shaking hand. He blushed a deep crimson that was not that perceptible in the semi-darkness that was usual for Trelawney's lair.
"I would not go that far," said Professor Trelawney. "Miss Patil might just need a bit of fresh air to compose herself. The forces of the other side are considerable and are not easy on an untrained mind. You might have gotten one of the more powerful ones—considering the large amount of information you received via the board, it's quite likely for your mind to overload, especially for one so sensitive to the supernatural as you are."
The bell rang.
"Oh dear! Time is fleeting!" the Professor exclaimed. "You should perhaps see Madam Pomfrey, Miss Patil. She'll give you something to calm down a bit." She turned towards the class. "If you'd put away the boards and glasses now?"
The students hurried to do just that. Harry and Ron returned to their table and board. The glass was resting on the letter 'S'.
"Wonder what it would have told us if we hadn't been distracted," muttered Harry.
"Probably just a ghost with an immense need for some live communication—Whoa, look!"
The glass was moving again.
'N-E-E-D-S-F-R-I-E-N-D-S-A-L-L-I-E-S'
"This is weird," said Ron. He sounded fascinated that something they did in Divination actually seemed to work for a change.
'B-A-D-T-I-M-E-S-A-H-E-A-D-B-E-T-T-E-R-T-I-M-E-S-Y-E-T-T-O-C-O-M-E'
"What do you mean?" Harry whispered as hypnotized by the slowly moving glass as Ron was.
'Y-O-U-K-N-O-W-W-H—'
"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, the lesson is ended," Professor Trelawney's not-remotely-as-misty-as-usual voice interrupted them. Ron jumped and accidentally knocked the glass over. "You may tell your ghostly friend good-bye and then clear the table."
"Yes, Professor," they murmured and obeyed. Then, after Harry had grabbed the parchment the Quick-Quotes-Quill had scribbled on, they climbed down the ladder and left North Tower.
"Damn. I would have liked to learn a bit more," Ron muttered. "Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think it wanted to say 'You Know Who'?" he said hesitantly.
"I don't know. Actually, I'm more interested in what this is all about," Harry waved the parchment in front of Ron.
"Maybe you'd better show it to Dumbledore," Ron suggested.
"Yeah, I think I'll do that. Later. Let's hurry. I want to ask Hagrid some things about Professor Ravon before lessons start."
"That exploding inkbottle thingy?"
"Yes. I want to know if she knew it would happen. She tried to warn Malfoy before it happened, remember?"
"Yeah. She's strange. I wouldn't have warned Malfoy if it was me."
~*~*~
Hermione was waiting for them at the front steps. "What took you so long?"
"Oh, well, you know, there was something really weird happening in Divination…" Ron began, and on their way down towards Hagrid's hut, he and Harry filled Hermione in on the vision Parvati had and the strange occurrence with the Quija board.
"You know, you should perhaps let Dumbledore in. I doubt Professor Trelawney will take Parvati's vision or whatever it was serious enough."
"Yeah, I'll give him a copy of the parchment as soon as possible. But now I've got a question or two about that inkbottle thingy… Hullo, Hagrid!"
"Hullo, yeh three," Hagrid shouted over the distance. "I'll be with yeh in a minute. Jus' got ter take the unicorns back into their enclosure… There, that's it." He locked the gate and then went into the other enclosure where he disappeared into the shadows for a minute or so before he came back out—with a giant creature on a leash.
"I've got a surprise fer yeh today. Jus' look at that! Lovely creature, ain't he?"
The 'lovely creature' looked a bit like an ox, although a rather big one. And it was golden all over. Despite its dangerous and sharp looking horns it looked quite friendly as Hagrid stroked its huge head.
"That's a Re'em, Hagrid," Hermione said, awestruck. "They're very rare. How on Earth—?"
"Listen, Hagrid. One thing," Harry interrupted. "I wanted to ask you something…"
"What yer wanna know?"
"It's about something that happened in Professor Ravon's class…" Harry began.
"Why? What happened?"
"We, that is, I think that she made—accidentally—the ink in Malfoy's bottle boil," Harry said hesitantly, "and it exploded. And I think that she knew it would happen."
"Why should she've known?" Hagrid asked suspiciously.
"Because she tried to warn him shortly before, well… What do you think?"
"Well, those things tend ter happen sometimes, don' they?" Hagrid had never sounded more deliberately evasive.
"Yes, but we never feel them coming," said Ron. "She did—at least Harry thinks so."
"Well, yeh might've noticed that she's not yer ordinary witch. Has some unusual powers. That's all I'm sayin'. Don' know no details anyway."
"But, Hagrid, what's—?"
"The poor lass has had enough ter deal with. It's none o' yer business," Hagrid said. "So… everybody here? Good. This is what I've got fer yeh today. This friendly beast here's a Re'em. Very dangerous if yeh don' treat 'em right, yeh hear me, Malfoy? Don' yeh come no closer. Its blood's used fer some Strength Potions as Professor Snape told me. But it's very hard ter get. They don' like bein' pricked or cut…"
~*~*~
Sariss made her way to her seat at the High Table. It was dinnertime. Yet, not all of the teachers were there. Professor Trelawney wouldn't attend—as usual, her chair was empty. Sariss wondered for a second why they always set up a chair for her at all. But it was obvious: just in case she came down surprisingly. Always be prepared. That had always been Sariss's motto and she had lived true to it, mentioning it more than once when being asked why she did this or that…
Hagrid wasn't there either—yet. He might be taking care of the Re'em first, feeding it, even grooming it perhaps? Sariss had to admit that Hagrid did well with any kind of animals even though he hadn't very much experience with them. He liked dangerous creatures. He had always liked them—and they liked him, too—and now that he was a teacher, he could procure and take care of them officially. And to get his hands on a Re'em! Sariss made a mental note to one day ask him how he had managed that…
Quickly scanning the rest of the table, she noticed that Snape was also missing. An accident with one of the potions perhaps? Half of the dungeons blown up once again? She smirked.
"Good evening, Professors. Professor Dumbledore," Sariss said as she walked past him.
"Sariss! I've been waiting for you already. There's something that I'd like you to see also. Minerva, if you'd be so kind…"
"Naturally, Albus," she replied and handed him a piece of parchment.
Dumbledore accepted it with a nod. "There has been an incident during the seventh-years' Divination lesson."
"What kind of incident?" Sariss asked, sitting down next to Dumbledore.
"Miss Patil fell into a trance and had a vision. Written on this parchment is what she said. I thought every staff member should know about this. It's quite unclear and mysterious. A typical prediction." He rolled his eyes slightly. "Sybill herself couldn't have stated it more vaguely. Actually, dear Professor Trelawney doesn't take it serious at all. She insists that Miss Patil had been lacking fresh air when her brain provided her with the words she spoke. I, however, am of a different opinion."
"Well, then let me see it and judge for myself."
Dumbledore handed Sariss the parchment. She quickly read it, furrowing her brows in concentration and puzzlement.
"Are those the exact words?" she asked. "I mean—."
"Yes, they are. They have originally been taken by a Quick-Quotes-Quill. Mr Potter was kind enough to have it written down and copy it for me."
"Quick-Quotes-Quill? During my time here they weren't allowed…"
"They still aren't. Mr Potter swore he only used it in Divination in case exactly this should happen. A very wise thing to do. You see, it has happened before."
"You mean, Trelawney's actually capable of predicting the future?"
"A very subtle art Divination is… But yes. Twice her predictions came true. And now there's Miss Patil's prediction. Quite a prediction it is. I'm tempted to call it a prophecy."
"What does all of this mean?" she finally said after reading it for a second time.
"Working together despite some differences, I wager," Dumbledore replied.
"Differences between whom? And how many people does it refer to?" Sariss's mind began to work on the riddle immediately.
"I have no idea," the headmaster sighed.
"Well, it's obvious that the Dark Lord is going to be defeated in the near future—that's good news—but how?" She sighed, exasperated. "Why do those prophecies always have to be so complicated and misleading? Couldn't it say, 'Go there, do this, do that'?"
"Bring together what once was divided…" Dumbledore muttered thoughtfully. "A deadly embrace… Past Evil undone… Hmm…"
~*~*~
It was late in the night, and Severus Snape was in the dungeons, taking stock of the Potions ingredients in the students' cupboard.
Hmm. We're running out of fluxweed… More wolfsbane…
His quill scratched over the parchment, taking notes. Some more nightshade… Rat spleens…
The door creaked open. It was the only sound save Severus's own breathing and the light scratching of his quill. It sounded very loud in his ears all of a sudden.
Familiar steps approached him and stopped right behind him.
Questioningly, Severus turned around. "Can I help you, Miss Ravon? Have you come to brew some Dreamless Sleep Potion?" he asked the first thing that he could think of—or rather, the first thing he could think of that wouldn't sound insinuating.
She was wearing her dressing gown and had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, as it was very cold in the dungeons. Her hair was down; it moved in a gentle breeze. The dungeons had always been a bit draughty, especially during the winter. It was useful for the small fires that burnt beneath the cauldrons. But now it seemed to exist only to enhance the dreamlike character of the situation.
Severus realized that he was all but staring at her, eyeing her up and down. How could he not? She looked incredible like that. He needed to force himself to not think about what lay hidden underneath that flowing dark hair and dressing gown that was fastened tightly around her waist.
Wordlessly, she took the parchment and quill from him and put them aside, only to slide her hands into their former places. Severus hardly dared to breathe when she did that. Her hands were cold as ice, but their feel sent not shivers of cold through him but some of an entirely different nature. "Say Sariss, will you?" she said then, glancing up at him for a short moment before she let her hands run up to his elbows and then moved them to his chest, letting them slowly travel upwards. Very slowly.
"Miss—Sariss…" he began. "Sariss…" What's going on here? "Sariss…"
"I'll have to buy myself another name if you keep wearing out this one."
"Sariss, what do you want to accomplish by doing… that?" Severus said, catching her by the wrists, thus preventing their further ascent. He shouldn't have done that. One word: Contact. Again.
"It's what you want, isn't it?" she said, a bit of confusion in her gaze. "I thought you wanted—"
"What do I want?" he asked hoarsely. He could see his reflection in her irises. Her eyes were wide open; it seemed that they penetrated him all too completely. And they did.
And she knew it, just as well as he did. After a few moments of merely looking at him—he fought the urge to squirm under her scrutinizing but nevertheless thoughtful gaze—she smiled somewhat suggestively. "Don't deny it," she said. "I know it. You yearn."
She was so close that he could hardly breathe. "What do I yearn?" he asked, struggling for words and for composure. She smelt intoxicating. And she was right.
What the hell had come over her? Why was she here at all when she wasn't in need of Dreamless Sleep Potion? Why was she behaving so… strange? It wasn't that he hadn't been imagining something like that—although he'd never believed that it would ever come true. Not at all. It was highly pleasing in a way. More than that. But she shouldn't be that straightforward. It was frightening. This wasn't the Sariss Ravon he had grown accustomed to. A part of him wanted to tell her to come to her senses. Another part wanted to shove her away and shout at her to stop playing with him in such a vindictive manner when she must have noticed how she affected him. It seemed that he couldn't bring up his defences. He felt like an open book and dreaded to be read. A small part of him hated her for that.
"What do you think that I yearn?"
"This," she breathed and moved even closer. Severus was suddenly aware that he was still clutching her wrists. She didn't grace that fact with a comment, as she pressed her body against his. Her breasts against his chest, her hips against his hips, her legs against his legs—and her lips not an inch from his.
"Don't do that," he said and took a hasty step back.
"Don't do what?" she breathed and closed the distance between them.
"Do not mock me, woman," he said harshly. Somehow her presence was getting more and more frightening by the minute. He felt he had no control over the situation. If she knew that he longed for her, why did she have to behave like that? It was highly disturbing. If she wanted to seduce him—which he could hardly believe possible although everything pointed to it—why was she playing with him like a cat would play with a mouse? "What are you playing at? Is that some sort of comeuppance? If so, it's not funny at all."
"I do not intend to punish you for anything if that's what you mean."
"Then stop whatever it is that you think you're doing."
"What am I doing?" Her lips grazed his chin as she spoke.
"Stop this madness. This is not you. You're not like this."
"What am I not like?" Her breath lingered on his chin for a moment before she brought some distance between their faces again. "Or even better: What do you think I should be like?"
"You're… not like this. You're many things. You're…" he had no words for her. He couldn't think. "But you're not this. You wouldn't come to me like this and do any of this. Not me. Not like this. Not ever."
"What makes you think that?" she looked up at him, now curious.
"It's not in your nature."
"You know nothing about my nature."
"I know that this is not it. You're not one of those women who approach a man like this, or so I always thought."
"Why would I not do that?"
"Because it means giving up a part of the control you exert over yourself. You wouldn't sacrifice it willingly. Not like this. Not unless you've determined whether you'd get it back."
"And what led you to that conclusion?"
"You're an Auror, even though you left the Ministry. It's been only a few months. You're still thinking like one."
"How presumptuous of you." She sounded amused and looked it too.
"Am I right?"
"You're talking too much." She stood on tiptoes and leant in.
"I won't have you seduce me," he forced out. "Why are you doing this?"
"Fine. If that's what you want. I'm not going to do anything. Let the question rather be 'what are you going to do about me?' Tell me to leave and I might just do that. I mean it. Be careful what you wish for. Or are you willing to take the next step or not? It's entirely in your hands."
She slowly closed her eyes, waiting for him to give her an answer not in words but rather in deeds, he realized.
She was very pale tonight, as she was wearing not a tinge of make-up, he noted as he looked at her face, which was so close to him that he would have seen if anything had covered up a blemish or mark. There was none that needed to be covered. She had a few freckles scattered over her cheeks. Fair skin like hers tended to be freckly. But there weren't many. He might not even have noticed them if she hadn't been so close. If he wanted to he could have counted them within a matter of moments.
He hardly noticed that her wrists slipped out of his hands. But when her face turned away, he awoke from his trance. She was actually leaving.
Severus caught her by the arm, thus holding her back. She opened her mouth to say something but her breath seemed to catch in her throat as he took her face in his hands.
"Yes," he whispered, capturing her mouth in his.
She slid her arms around his shoulders and ran her cold fingertips over the nape of his neck and then up into his hair.
That certain spark was there again. The same that had been there at Christmas. His skin prickled where she touched it, his lips—now moist—felt as if effervescent powder had been applied to them; the sensation was tickling, like myriads of tiny explosions, and incredibly arousing.
Severus completely forgot that everything seemed so weird and illogical. His instincts took over instead, as he ran his hands down her body. The feel of her extraordinarily soft and heavy hair against the backs of his hands was exquisite. So was the feel of her mouth. Now it was he who pressed her against him. And moving one of his hands up her spine, he entwined his fingers in her hair and rested his hand against the nape of her neck. He'd never let her move away again. Witchcraft. That was exactly what it was. It was not an ordinary kiss that she gave him there. It was not an ordinary kiss that he gave her either. It was a kiss that demanded more and more and even more with every second that it lasted. He sucked in her taste, drowning in her. She did the same.
The part of his mind that was not completely dazed tried to tell him that this was not what a first kiss with her could ever be like. It shouldn't be like that. There must be a law to forbid it.
He idly wondered who had taught her to kiss like that. Surely not the boy she'd gone to her graduation ball with? Strange that Severus actually remembered that little fact now. His mind must be so jumbled that it provided him with long forgotten details from years ago.
After a very long time he tore his mouth away from hers, only to let it wander to her throat, teasing and sucking at her skin. It was very hot now. Amazing.
Her shawl fell to the floor, slipping through Severus's fingers—or rather under Severus's fingers. She either didn't realize or she didn't care that it was gone because she actually wanted it to be gone. The latter was the more likely option, as her little, no longer cold, hands kept digging into his hair and his shoulders; her usually well-controlled voice, which was now very unsteady and breathlessly hoarse, was encouraging him, urging him on, begging him for more.
Severus had no idea how, but suddenly he found himself not wearing his robe any longer and undoing her dressing gown and sliding it over her shoulders. It, too, dropped to the floor. She boldly tugged on his shirt, sliding her hands underneath it—by doing so sending ripples of pleasure through him—while her mouth sought his again, fervently, almost violently, kissing him. In no time, the shirt joined the robe on the cold dungeon floor.
As cold as the floor might have been, the dungeons seemed not cold at all anymore.
Her body seemed to be on fire. Its heat was seeping through her long black silken nightgown. Her white skin had become of a faint pink, but it was still very light due to the contrast to her nightgown.
He found that the two of them had moved towards the wall on the far side of the room—although he couldn't remember how on earth they'd gotten there. Severus didn't even care. He cared about nothing but what she was doing to him. Her luscious mouth kissed its way away from his mouth and down his throat while her hands pulled on his belt, undoing it…
And then he found himself having her up against the wall, her legs around him, her hands cupping his face, her hot breath mingling with his, her gaze locked with his. Her eyes were dark green with passion. The nipples of her breasts brushed his chest with every movement she made. That touch was so light, it was hardly there. Maybe that was why he was so… conscious… of it.
Apparently, he had pushed up her nightgown, as he grew aware of the fact that his hands were on her thighs and hips, pressing her tightly against him. He felt her muscles tense and relax in his grip. He felt the blood in her rush through her veins, driven by her fast heartbeat. She followed his every move, straining against him, grinding herself against him and crossing her legs behind his back to steady herself. It allowed him to move his hands up and down her body, away from her slender legs towards her breasts.
Her moaning and something that he'd like to call exclamations—although they were very soft for lack of sufficient breath, and quite incoherent—increased as he stroked and kneaded her firm round breasts, teased her stiff nipples with his thumb first, making them grow even harder, before he bent his head to continue their tender violation with his lips and his tongue and finally his teeth, nibbling and sucking.
She dug her fingernails deep into the skin on his shoulders, and let her head fall back, arching her body, which was shuddering with passion and desire.
He was absent-mindedly aware that he too was moaning and groaning against her breasts, her throat, her mouth.
It was the most erotic experience that he'd ever had. That was something he could tell. He'd had his share of willing women, so to speak—some of them too willing—and the greater part of them had either been gone the next morning or said something along the lines of 'If we meet again, we could repeat this.'
Those memories hurt a bit. The politically correct expression for what approximately eighty percent of Severus's sexual encounters had been was 'one night love affair', if one liked to have it sound tasteful enough. The remaining ones were meaningless, as the objects of his affections were either dead or had turned out to be not really interested—or interesting—after all. He had not been too good with choosing whom to take to bed or by whom to be taken to bed when he had been younger. That was something that he couldn't deny. Sometimes he'd like to make it undone. Experiences like those didn't actually increase one's confidence—or, for that matter, one's trust in something like love.
Was Severus really that much in love with her as he thought he was? He'd have to ponder it as soon as his head would stop spinning…
Indeed, everything around him was a blur; her sighs echoed in his head…
The grip she had on him loosened and disappeared…
His hands passed through her…
The light darkened…
She was slipping away from him and he couldn't even see her anymore…
He felt himself falling, swirling through space or time or both.
Where is she? was his only thought before—
He opened his eyes and found himself, breathing heavily, in his dimly lit bedroom. The charms that secured somewhat of an artificial sunrise had already begun to glow faintly. It must be morning already. Yes, it was indeed morning, he realized when he checked the time. The Dreamless Sleep Potion had apparently worn off, thus providing him with a very intense dream.
Severus was dazed. He hadn't had a dream like that for years—or at least none that he could remember that clearly. He'd been dreaming of her several times already, but none of those dreams had gone so far. If they had, he didn't remember them.
It had felt so real. Even now, he felt as if it had been real. His body was definitely of the opinion that it had been real. His skin was still flushed and covered in goose bumps, as it seemed to recall the sensation of her skin against his, her body around him, of her hands stroking him, roaming over him, of her mouth kissing its way up and down his body.
But it had been a dream. Merely a dream of his feverish mind. A projection of his subconscious longing for physical contact, perhaps. A succubus with her body and voice his mind had created.
All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than fall asleep again, have that dream and never wake up again. He could spend the rest of his life like that. If he couldn't have her in reality, if he couldn't go to her in real life, in his dreams she came to him. If he couldn't have her in real life, in his dreams she wanted him. It was the second best thing, wasn't it? It was so much more than he could ever expect from her. But at the same time, it wasn't enough. It was, after all, an illusion, no matter how real it might feel. There were so many little things his dream image of her would never be for the sole reason that he didn't know them yet. He found he wanted to know everything. It was strange. He could honestly say that he'd never before had the urge to know everything about something or someone. Maybe it was so because she revealed so little about herself. Maybe it was so because the less likely something became, the more Severus wanted it…
If only she'd be more accessible in reality. Just a tiny bit. He didn't ask for remotely as much as she had been in his dream. He'd very much like to be the more active part in reality. Male pride, maybe. Predatory instincts.
Those were the thoughts that raced each other through his brain as Severus lay there, the dream startlingly clearly engraved in his memory as though it had not been merely a dream. He bathed in the memory of it.
Perhaps he should go look for the Mirror of Erised? Would it show what he had just been dreaming? He could think of no reason why it shouldn't. It was what he wanted. The words Sariss in his dream had spoken were the truth. Of course. His mind had made her speak them.
As he got up and dressed, he idly wondered if she really looked like she had in his dream, if she really sounded like that when only desire ruled her, in the throes of passion, if she really felt like that, if she tasted like that, if the real thing would be the same or better.
He found that this dream had made him curious—but on the other hand, it almost made him despair.
He yearned for her. Her glances, her voice, her touch. He wanted her to be his completely.
How long would it take for the walls to crumble and make him incapable of hiding his emotions from her? How long until he would be rejected and embarrassed?
There had to be a way…
~*~*~
Harry had made the team practise hard for their upcoming match against Ravenclaw. Despite the fact that the latter had been creamed by the Slytherins, Harry expected them to have practised equally hard to make up for it now. However, as long as Dane didn't catch the Snitch, victory would be secured.
Cauldwell announced the teams and then the game was on.
Harry rose high above the pitch, watching his team's performance closely, yet at the same time, he scanned the surroundings for a glint of gold.
Jamie had just thrown the Quaffle for Ginny to catch who sped up towards the Ravenclaw goalposts and scored effortlessly. It was a good thing that she flew the Firebolt. She was barely more than a red blur when she started another attack on the Ravenclaw Keeper.
"Ginny Weasley scores again!" Cauldwell's voice echoed over the pitch. "The score's thirty to zero for Gryffindor, as Ron Weasley, Gryffindor's fabulous Keeper pulls a spectacular save, thus preventing Fawcett from scoring!"
Harry meanwhile swerved around the pitch, straining his eyes to see the Snitch against the glimmering whiteness of the snow that covered the pitch and the tops of the stands. It was a nuisance to his eyes. And the gleaming watches and glasses of the audience weren't helpful either.
"Quirke scores! Weasley couldn't see that one coming. Fabulous manoeuvre. Gryffindor back in possession…"
There was another glint of something shiny, and Dane went in direction of the Slytherin stands. Harry also followed for a short distance until he realized that some piece of jewellery Professor Ravon was wearing had produced that sparkle. He immediately swerved to the left and turned around to see Natalie score as Dennis had struck the Bludger that had been aiming for Ginny right away from her. It slammed into Weinberg instead.
Gryffindor scored several times, perfectly exerting the moves Harry had made the team practise. Ravenclaw, too, scored a few times, although Ron managed to hold the Quaffle most of the times before it even came near the hoops.
The Snitch was still nowhere to be seen. How long was the game already going?
As the Ravenclaws started another attack at the Gryffindor goalposts, Ron had to do a Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger Colin had overlooked. Orla Quirke scored.
"That makes the score 170-50 for Gryffindor!"
There was another glint of gold hovering high above the pitch, a bit to the right of the Hufflepuff stands. Was it the Snitch? Had Dane seen it, too? It didn't look like it. No, he hadn't noticed—but he was much closer to the golden glimmer than Harry. He tried to unobtrusively get closer to where the Snitch—Harry was fairly sure that it was indeed the Snitch by now—was hovering, nervously jumping from left to right and up and down. Then Harry dived down, provoking Dane into following him, ("Harry Potter must have seen the Snitch!") before he quickly pulled around and swerved towards where the Snitch was still hovering.
His hand closed on the struggling ball. "I've got it!" Harry yelled. "I've got the Snitch!"
"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Cauldwell yelled. "GRYFFINDOR WIN!"
~*~*~
Sariss was on her way to the dungeons. It was almost midnight and she had run out of Dreamless Sleep Potion again. She hadn't realized that she had used it so often lately and in so large doses…
As she walked down the huge marble staircase that led down from the first floor to the Entrance Hall she was glad, she'd thrown a shawl around her shoulders. It was significantly cold. Usually that didn't bother so much, as that was her usual disposition, but when it was very cold—which it was, Hogwarts castle being very draughty during wintertime—she was glad to have a warm garment with her to keep the little warmth she possessed close, although it wasn't of much use.
At the same time as she reached the Entrance Hall an annoying singsong voice almost shattered her ears. "Someone's gonna be in so much trouble! Student out of bounds at night!" and a figure dressed in bright colours grinning from ear to ear swished past her and hovered in midair right in the middle between her and the staircase to the dungeons.
"Let me pass, Peeves. I'm not a student," Sariss groaned, trying to push him to the side, but the annoying poltergeist wouldn't let her.
"Oops! Ha ha! My fault!" He seemed to overcome his astonishment at her status all too quickly since he started circling around her, pulling on her hair. "But it's so much fun!"
"Peeves! Stop this before I get really mad at you…" He'd always liked to annoy her by doing this.
"Ha ha!" was his only answer. Obviously, he hadn't grown much brighter during the last few years.
He started circling her, swishing through the air around her but still preventing her from entering the dungeons.
"Stop this immediately, Peeves," Sariss said now, her voice a dangerous whisper. "Remember when I flattened you against the wall? You want me to do that again?"
He didn't stop. "You don't remember? Apparently, I didn't leave a lasting impression…" she muttered. It wasn't really an option. She'd spent a few long minutes explaining to various people that Peeves wouldn't let her pass otherwise and had hardly escaped detention, although she'd lost Slytherin twenty points for 'flattening the unsuspecting un-dead.'
She spoke up, "Would you rather have an appointment with the Bloody Baron? I'm sure he'd be quite cooperative if I asked him nicely. Maybe I should call for the Bloody Baron!" Her voice had been increasing in volume as she said this until, at the end, it had risen to an angry yell.
That seemed to get his attention. "The Bloody Baron?" he screeched, as a gust of icy cold swept through the room, a distinct sign that the just mentioned person was approaching. Right on cue. No wonder, they were not far from the dungeons, after all.
And a second later the Bloody Baron himself swept up the staircase from the dungeons.
"Good evening, your bloodiness," Sariss curtsied politely, a perfectly executed Elizabethan curtsy—her dancing lessons had proved quite helpful so far. As a Slytherin, you had better know what was appropriate when facing your House Ghost. Especially when it was the Bloody Baron, who was the only one who could possibly rid you of Peeves. And if good manners pleased the Baron, she would show them in abundance. After all, it could—and did—prove quite useful to have good connections to some people whether they were alive or un-dead…
"You called, Madam?" the Baron asked. Sariss could almost see Peeves shrink, and if it were possible for a ghost to faint, he, most certainly, would have.
"Thank you very much, but actually I did not. I was just commentating on how extraordinarily clammy your ectoplasm seemed to be lately, contrary to that of peeving Peeves here," Sariss said, thinking that flattery would get her rid of Peeves and the Bloody Baron. Peeves was annoying and the Bloody Baron made her feel even colder than usual; she shivered, for the Baron had stepped—no, rather floated—very near to the place she was standing at.
"Flattery gets you everywhere nowadays," he said, actually winking. His icy breath (Ghosts can breathe? Strange… Well, maybe if they really put some effort into it…) made her take a hasty step backwards. "I do apologize, Milady. I keep forgetting that the touch of the dead is an icy touch indeed… If you'll excuse me now?" He bowed.
Sariss nodded eagerly.
"Of course. And I thank you very much."
"Peeves!" the Bloody Baron boomed, already on his way to the first floor. "Go bother some Gryffindors if you must bother anyone at all!"
Peeves squeaked. "I-I… i-i-immediately, s-s-sir, B-bloody B-baron, sir…" he stuttered and rushed right through the ceiling.
She took a deep breath as soon as the ghosts were gone, drawing the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Thankfully, it was a large, long shawl, made of some velvety material, soft and—supposedly—warm…
Sariss was tired. The previous day had been a Quidditch Saturday and as good as the excitement felt, it was also exhausting. All this cheering and jumping always left her somewhat drained. She only wanted to quickly throw the ingredients together and brew the Potion. It didn't even have to be done expertly. She was not in the mood to fall asleep over a cauldron out of sheer fastidiousness.
If only it were done already. If only conjuring potions weren't forbidden.
She walked down the narrow staircase and along the first cold passageway until she reached the Potions classroom. A faint light could be seen, seeping through the keyhole and the narrow fissure at the threshold of the door. Obviously there was someone else who had some business to attend to in the Potions dungeon… No student would dare to be there in the dead of night; if they got caught… So there was but one possibility… Severus Snape must be working late…
Her theory was confirmed as soon as she'd opened the door. Snape was standing there, bent over a desk on which a cauldron sat. Sariss saw he was wearing Dragonhide gloves, so he must be working with something toxic or corrosive… Acid fungi, perhaps? Or wolfsbane? she thought as she noticed the smell that invaded the room. It smelt like unfinished Dreamless Sleep Potion. Sariss knew every stage of it by heart. He was indeed brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion, just as she had intended. Definitely acid fungi and wolfsbane…
"Good evening, Professor Snape," Sariss said quietly as Snape had looked up shortly and greeted her with a short "Miss Ravon."
She went to the shelf with the cauldrons, and as she took a middle-sized pewter one, Snape spoke up, "You won't be needing this. I'm already working on some Dreamless Sleep Potion, as I'm quite sure you've already noticed."
Not putting the cauldron back into the shelf she answered with a somewhat exasperated sounding sigh that was, however, born more out of confusion than of irritation, "I told you already that it's not necessary."
"It is not a problem," he stated simply.
"But—"
"I said it is not a problem," Snape repeated harshly. Then he continued in a surprisingly tender voice, "Has it never occurred to you that I might just need some of it myself sometimes?" Sariss only looked at him; somehow, she suddenly wished his face hadn't been obscured by his hair so she could have at least tried to read his expression. The man guarded his emotions too well—but on the other hand, perhaps it was better that way. "I just thought I'd make a bit more, so…" he trailed off.
"Well, then…" she began, feeling slightly insecure at his behaviour—almost as though she were a student again. "How's it coming along?" she asked a little shakily, putting the cauldron back into its respective place, and then walked towards the desk Snape was standing behind stirring the potion.
She moved to take a look into the cauldron. It was coming along quite nicely—No, that was an understatement. He really was a Potions master. The potion was simmering gently; its initial dirty grey-black colour was turning into the proper shade of purple of a well-brewed Dreamless Sleep Potion. It was perfect.
"It's done," Snape said, thus stating the obvious, taking off his Dragonhide gloves and reaching to grab some phials.
Sariss quickly summoned the ladle that had been lying on a nearby table and handed it to him so he could pour the steaming liquid into the phials. He accepted it with a nod and a whispered "Thank you." Stoppering them securely after he'd filled them, he put them back onto the desk, one by one. Snape banished the remains of the potion and cleaned the desk with a flick of his wand.
She noticed absent-mindedly how precise and secure every movement of his was as he used the Potions equipment—he had very clever hands—beautifully shaped hands, slender but… Don't go there! a little voice in the back of her mind admonished her once again. It had been quite busy doing this for the last few days—ever since Christmas (with interruptions, however)… It must be her tiredness. She wasn't thinking clearly anymore. Yes, that must be it… But how come she'd never realized how gorgeous his hands were before? He had taught her for years… Yet, she had never noticed… Strange that now they seemed almost hypnotizing…
This is not the point here… the voice spoke up—again.
Why is this not the point here? Haven't you realized that thinking about this makes it seem—I don't know—not so cold in here anymore?
Frankly, I don't think it has anything to do with the location…
"Miss Ravon?" Snape said, startling her out of her reverie. "If you'd…"
"What?" She noticed that he was holding out some phials towards her. "Oh. Right. Thank you," she added, a bit embarrassed that he'd caught her off guard—if he'd noticed that, he, fortunately, did not show it—but she reached out to take them from him nonetheless.
As she did so, the last thing she needed now, happened. She accidentally brushed his hand with her fingertips. Thoughts sprang to mind of how electrifying, how soft, how smooth, how—despite the low temperature of the room—warm his skin was, how she actually longed to kiss his lips once more just like under the mistletoe… Thoughts that made her feel… uncomfortable around him, as though she couldn't grasp a clear thought even if she tried to conjure one up and it danced the tango on the teacher's desk wearing a dress robe and singing 'Subtle thoughts are here again.'
"Thank you," she repeated, at a loss for anything else to say, finally taking hold of the phials.
That done, she racked her brain for something else to say. Her hands were visibly trembling as she fidgeted with the phials. If she kept this up for very long, she'd drop them—and how embarrassing would that be?
"You're shaking," Snape said.
"Cold," Sariss said, rather clumsily tugging the phials safely into a pocket of her robes.
Nice and monosyllabic, isn't it?
He stepped closer. Sariss wasn't sure if she should take a step back or not. But it didn't matter, since that wouldn't have been an option anyway. She already had a desk in her way.
And such a good excuse that is…
Snape gently brushed a strand of her hair away. He had already done that once and it still startled her. It was too affectionate; it aroused a longing in her that she thought she had managed to bury. She had been telling herself that she didn't need this, any of this, that she didn't even want this. She still tried to convince herself that this was the truth—and she could too if only he stopped doing… whatever it was that he did. Being so close yet too far away (if he'd only get it over with so Sariss could think clearly again), being so bold yet so very gentle (not providing enough reason for Sariss to simply push him away and run), daring to make her feel that way, to make her want to be touched in a way that had previously been unimaginable to her…
Don't touch my skin again. Don't touch my skin, she kept repeating. If he did—
Don't tell me that this isn't exactly what you want.
I…
His fingertips slithered over her cheekbone. Sariss swallowed.
It was an accident, I'm sure.
You can't be remotely as thick as you pretend to be.
It… I'm…
As his thumb lightly ran over her lower lip, her breath caught in her throat.
You know what's coming, don't you?
Well…
Sariss wasn't sure if she was exactly where she wanted to be or if she'd rather prefer to be anywhere but where she was. She felt goose bumps erupt all over her skin; shivers raced through her system. Desperately, she tried not to look at the Potions master. Time had seemingly decided to stand still for the sole reason of torturing her with his very presence.
Snape's fingers slithered under her chin, tilting her face up a bit. Sariss avoided his gaze, holding her breath. She didn't even dare breathe in case it would encourage him—or discourage him or whatever.
He stooped slightly and brushed his lips over hers—
Mistletoe alert…
—only for the fraction of a second.
This was like the dream she kept having—although not precisely…
Sariss snapped back into reality when she heard his voice. "Still cold?" he asked softly.
She felt her cheeks flush at the emotions she sensed coming from him, the emotions that seemed to penetrate her. She could hardly breathe at their impact on her. Was this what—she could hardly believe that she was considering it—was this what desire felt like? She had never been alone with someone who had felt desire. That was after all an emotion that was far too private. Never had she sensed it without it being mingled with many other feelings, never so pure, never had she known who had been the one who felt it—not that she would have cared. It had never mattered. She had known it hadn't been directed at her. But now…
Sariss wasn't sure what to make of it. She'd have to think about it—later, when she could think coherently again, without her train of thought being interrupted by the tingling sensation that was still dancing over her lips like dozens of shooting stars.
Breathe, dear. Air in. Air out. You know the procedure…
She took a breath and opened her mouth to say something. No sound would come out.
Don't you want to say something?
"Erm…" Sariss finally managed. She couldn't think of anything to say.
Very eloquent. Impressive. Rhetoric masterpiece, really.
Lacking anything to say or do, she slipped past the Potions master and, hurriedly sweeping out of the dungeon—her robes billowing, her shawl fluttering behind her—she at least remembered her manners and managed to mutter—or rather breathe—a quick "Excuse me." It was surprising that her jumbled mind was capable of stringing a sentence as simple as that together at all.
Racing up the staircases, she returned to her chambers, undressed quickly and went to sleep after having taken the potion. She felt confused, embarrassed, light-headed… simply put: strange. She tried to force any thought about the Potions master out of her mind, which was very difficult since he simply refused entirely to leave her thoughts. The facts that her cheek and chin were still tingling, her lips still prickling with the aftermath of his kiss weren't exactly helpful either…
Thankfully, the potion added to her tiredness in a way that was enough for her to fall asleep almost instantly, without being forced to think too much about the Potions master's touch.
The dreams that kept coming despite the potion (it seemed either not to work or merely prevent her from having her usual nightmare), were an entirely different matter…
~*~*~
Severus Snape held out some of the phials for her to take. "Miss Ravon?" he asked when she didn't seem to have noticed it. She looked tired. "If you'd…"
"What? Oh. Right. Thank you." She seemed nervous now, startled, as if she had been deep in thought. He still held the phials in his hand, offering them to her. And she took them, with slightly trembling hands, accidentally brushing his hand with her fingertips. Snape almost jumped out of his skin, but he wouldn't be who he was if he let this show (again—once had been enough)… Her touch was cold as ice but it was also—electrifying; the same as it had felt when he had kissed her full on the lips on Christmas because of that damned mistletoe… But at second thought, it hadn't been that damned. It also made him painfully aware that the dream he'd had, had taken place exactly where he was now.
He wished he were dreaming, all of a sudden.
"Thank you," she whispered again, nervously fidgeting with the phials.
She'll drop them.
"You're shaking," he said. She was indeed shaking.
"Cold," she said with a trembling voice, putting the frail phials away.
I thought it didn't bother her that much?
It doesn't, not that much. It's not the real reason.
And what is the real reason?
That's what I intend to find out—right now.
Severus took a few steps towards her. She was trapped. Snape in front of her, a desk in her back. No way out, but to try and slip past him in a way that would appear impolite at least, rude at most. If she did that now, he'd know for sure if it was of any use to waste all his conscious thoughts on her—as he had done for weeks and months by now. As though it lay within his powers to banish the thought of her from his mind…
Hesitantly, he twirled a strand of her hair around his hand and pushed it back. It was still as soft and smooth as it had been the last time he had done this. He had almost thought it, too, had been a dream—but that couldn't be; Severus had nightmares, but no dreams—the delicious one of a few nights ago hadn't returned. Instead, he'd dreamt of dark and evil things. His mind had gone and looked for the worst things in his past and present and had mixed a cocktail that had him violently jerk awake when it was at its worst.
But the feel of her hair was still there. It was as he remembered it.
It had been real.
Could he dare to… Should he try?
Her eyes that were partly hidden by those gently curved long dark lashes darted from left to right and back again, not sure where to rest, their blinking giving away her insecurity—as if everything else about her hadn't already—as he let his fingertips journey over her cheek. Her skin was cool; its touch sent the tingling sensation through his body again.
Now that he had been prepared for this to happen, it was more than pleasant—almost too pleasant.
You might dream about her again tonight…
Never before had he been able to take a look at her face as he did now. On 1st September, he hadn't been exactly enthusiastic about her presence. Then they had been fighting. After that, she had ignored him. Then she had worn her Muggle witch costume. She hadn't looked like herself, more like a projection of herself, but nonetheless stunning, when she had apologized—and not because of the costume—and Snape hadn't been very lenient either, now that he thought about it. (I need more practice in those things, he sighed inwardly.) Then they'd had a bit of a misunderstanding. At Christmas, it had been over all too quickly, as though it had never happened at all… Simply too many people…
But now! Time had ceased to pass. How long had they been here already? A minute, a year, a lifetime?
Severus brushed his thumb over her trembling lower lip. Cherry red. Yes, like a ripe cherry, soft and certainly even sweeter. Her lips. He could still recall their reserved but tender touch… He could also recall their not so reserved touch—but that one hadn't been real.
How can nature be so cruel and make them look so inviting, but—
But forget to hand out invitations? To you, that is.
Exactly.
Well… Why don't you just invite yourself? There can't always be mistletoe doing the work for you.
The worst she can do is slap me, isn't it?
The worst she could do is slap you and tell you to go to hell. If she added the right insults—
Enough! It's worth it.
Really?
Yes. That and much more.
Severus let his fingertip slither down her cheek and under her chin, tipping her face up.
Remarkable how she can avoid your gaze even now, don't you think?
What do you think about that? She's holding her breath.
Hmm. I'm not sure. Either she prays for it to be over already or she prays for you to start and never end.
You know what? You were never less helpful.
Don't ask me then.
Let's be optimistic for a change and hope that the fact that she hasn't fled already is a good sign, alright?
Severus steeled himself. He could still step back. He didn't have to. But if he did that now, would it be an insult to her? Most certainly, it would confuse her; even more than she was already, it was obvious that she, too, didn't have much practice in matters that could lead to being 'romantically involved' with someone. If he simply stepped back now, wouldn't that mean that he was wasting a chance to be—as small as the glimmer of hope was—a chance to be… liked, fancied, or perhaps even—loved?
Oh gods, how he longed for her. If she'd only touch him for once; by doing so, show him that he wasn't wasting his affections—not that he had anyone else to waste them on, moreover anyone who was worth it, someone who'd accept them. Never before had his intentions been so sincere and serious—well, once perhaps… but these lips now he had already touched with his—if only once. And it had felt like heaven—and hell, when the thought had crossed his mind that it most likely wouldn't happen again.
If only she'd put her arms around him, draw him closer, cup his face in her small cold ivory hands just like he'd seen her do in the Mirror of Erised…
You'd love to… er… warm them, wouldn't you?
If I had just one wish, only one demand…
By Merlin, if he kept on imagining her skin against his he'd go insane.
Get it over with already! You'll still be standing here tomorrow if you don't—
Severus lowered his mouth to hers, only brushing her slightly parted lips, savouring the sensation he so ached for. Her lips still quivered; their feel, their softness, their very texture, made him want more. It was pure torture to draw back before he wouldn't be able to keep himself from drowning her in a less than decent kiss—and that after what could hardly have been a second.
"Still cold?" he breathed, not quite trusting his voice.
A rosy shimmer crept onto her cheeks. She looked so very lovely that he almost repeated his actions from a moment ago. But she didn't look him in the eyes. This woman was so strange. When they were speaking in a normal way—not shouting, that is—she simply avoided looking him in the eyes at all costs. It might after all be a good thing that she did that. If her gaze were to lock with his…
Don't go there again. It's doing us no good.
"Erm…" was all that she managed.
Almost as eloquent as you were.
Well, that keeps her from telling me to go to hell.
She could still slap you.
She won't. The right moment to do that has passed unused.
She slipped past him, one of her tresses slithering over one of Severus's hands, making him long for touching them, gathering them up, burying his face in her hair.
After having muttered a very quick "Excuse me," she was gone within the blink of an eye; like a black shadow she rushed through the doorway and disappeared; her retreating footsteps echoing in the poorly lit corridor as she made her way back up into the Entrance Hall.
Severus Snape stared at the door for quite some time before he left the classroom and went to sleep, completely forgetting to take the Dreamless Sleep Potion with him, as all he could think of were the prickling of his lips and the sensation of hers on them.
And still the thought of her skin against his tormented him. More than ever.
Next chapter:
Sariss avoids Snape, Dumbledore announces a Valentine's Ball, Snape tries to be nice, Sariss collides with Snape. And Neville gets a last-minute date for the ball.