"There is one more thing," Dumbledore drew a parchment from the pile of rolled missives on the table in front of him. Snape inwardly groaned, yes this was the staff meeting from Hell. Surely Dante must have included staff meetings in one of his inner circles of damnation; he made a mental note to check his battered copy of 'The Inferno' later for a reference. "Severus, please indulge an old man for another few moments." Snape felt the Headmaster's criticism underlying the teasing tone of his words. He sat up straighter and feigned an interest. Dumbledore nodded and looked down at the parchment.

"Our recent vacancy in the position of History of Magic has not gone unnoticed. We are being offered a temporary instructor, for the remainder of this school year." Smiling down into his beard he said, "That should allow Professor Binns time to return from this rather surprising sabbatical." He looked up at his staff, mouth set in a serious line. "This morning I received word from Hildegaard Von Franz" he paused to let Snape's audible intake of breath resonate throughout the room "of the Norn Coven informing me that if we are so inclined, she would very much like to have us consider one of her own witches for the position." Now he had them all gasping.

Minerva spoke first, "A Norn Witch is interested in teaching at Hogwarts???"

"It would appear to be the case," Dumbledore affirmed.

The staff room came alive with a buzzing undercurrent of surprised whispers.

Snape's voice was not amongst those. He was reeling under the shock of the message, searching for the intent. The highest order of witches in the entire magical world had contacted Dumbeldore, to offer one of their own to spend nearly three quarters of a school year with this student body. It was unfathomable.

It had been nine years since he had been in Hildegaard Von Franz's presence, he was thirty years old now and his life at twenty-one seemed to have been lived by someone else. Another someone who had had the experiences but left him to fathom out the meanings. He shuddered as the sickening and all too familiar stab of shame and regret cut to the bone. He fell into the nearly decade old memory from that fateful day; the ice-cold spray of the ocean air, the contrasting heat of the witches gathered around him, warmth denied to him because he held one of their own, dying, in his arms. Von Franz had spoken in riddles…

 He rubbed absently at his chest and felt the…

"Professor!" hissed the librarian to his right. "Headmaster!" hissed the librarian to his left. He was flanked by both women.

He shook himself out of his reverie and looked up. "Apologies, Headmaster, sir," he bowed his head, "My thoughts were elsewhere."

"Apparently." Dumbledore stared at him intently. "I was asking for any reservations that the staff may have regarding this placement. I assume you have none."

"Of course I have none. I am just," he hesitated, "extraordinarily," hesitation still, "surprised, honored…a bit stunned…"

"'More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, '" chuckled Flitwick.

Snape turned on the little professor venomously, "Not in my heaven and earth, sir!" He saw too late that the man meant no harm and had been merely attempting to lighten Snape's obviously tense mood. He pursed his lips and slightly inclined his head, but Flitwick turned away, silently.

Dumbledore broke through the awkward hush, "Yes, then. I thought not. Katla Freyan will arrive tomorrow."

October 30th, Snape realized. Of course, nine years to the day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The meeting was over, the groan of chair springs keeping time with the creaking of aging bones as staff members rose and stretched and murmured to one another.

Snape sat frozen. He was immersed in a fog of pain. He vividly remembered the Icelandic cliffs…had the chill from that morning ever left his core…

He struggled to pull his thoughts back to a semblance of clarity.

On a peripheral level, he knew that the librarians were lingering, casting furtive glances at him. Since their arrival at Hogwarts last Spring, they always seemed to be on the edges of his presence. Was he imagining this or was there a truth to it, he wondered idly, still trying to draw his thoughts down to that sharper point. He had given them no more consideration than he did any of the other staff who played less than minor roles in his day-to-day existence at the school, yet, by the very virtue of this new feeling of familiarity, perhaps he should be paying a bit more attention.

He looked up and indeed two pairs of eyes were studying him. The staff room was now empty but for the three of them. He scowled and stood, refusing to indulge his body with any form of stretching or deep breath. He held himself taut on the balls of his feet as he adjusted his robes.

Crossing his arms, he looked at the young women in front of him. "Tell me," he purred, and was rewarded with two flashes of teeth and smiles. "You are always together, never apart?"

The one giggled and the other smiled nervously. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"What do you mean, exactly, professor?" smiled the one in a flirtatious manner. His eyebrow dropped menacingly.

"I mean exactly that." Why was he playing with them like this, he asked himself. He needed to be alone. Immediately. But an inner demon preferred to shake him out of his current state of unease. He heard himself speak again, "Perhaps you embody a sort of mental Siamese twinship?"

Both stood quietly. "Well, we are identical," spoke one softly.

"We've been together since conception," echoed the other.

"But you make it sound," said the first.

"As if that were a bad thing," finished the second.

"Unless," the first one again, with a wicked smile, "you have some," he watched in utter disbelief as she slowly licked the length of her top lip, "curiosity that needs to be satisfied?"

"Curiosity doesn't always kill the cat, you know?" whispered the other sister.

Snape's inner demon was howling in glee, he surmised. His thoughts were very intently focused now. He should have seen this, he berated himself silently. He was very nearly in over his head; but he did welcome the comfort of having his senses sharpened to the glittering knife's edge that was his usual self. Yes, that felt good.

He looked from the lip licker to her mirrored sister, and the corner of his own, thin, upper lip lifted slightly in a sneer he knew from experience was deadly to amorous feelings.

"Evangeline and Madeline," he drew their names out slowly, "such a quick and generous offer to satiate my," he raised an eyebrow and dropped the curling lip, "curiosity, was it?" He imagined his tongue dripping with poisoned honey, "Perhaps it would be best to remember, the only boast that the mice can make is that they beat the cat to the grave."

He swept past them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The fact that he had charmed his wards to allow him the satisfaction of slamming the door to his private quarters didn't bring his usual smirk. His long strides took him to the cabinet of wizard spirits and muggle liquor; he flung open the tall doors and stared at the vast collection of liquids, each whispering a promise of respite and forgetting.

While deciding whether he wanted to temporarily empty his mind of these current thoughts or just dull the cutting edges, he brutally tore at the silvered clasp that closed his robes and they thudded to the floor, a dark pool around his feet. He leaned into the cabinet and brought out a heavy, crystal glass and his oldest bottle of talisker. As he levitated the glass and poured the whiskey, he could feel his shoulders itching to be rid of the weight of his woolen frock coat. He sneered at himself, grabbed at the half full glass of amber liquid and downed it in one gulp. A grimace of satisfied pain rode across the sharp plains of his face, the butterscotch fire roaring down his throat. He waited for the smoky aftertaste, then refilled the glass and returned the bottle to a dark corner inside the cabinet.

He would just grind off the surgical precision of the memories, then.

Dumbledore's announcement certainly was a sign of something much bigger than a substitute instructor. It boded of things which would need to be examined and considered with some semblance of consciousness. The situation with the twin librarians was another thing altogether and required no more thought. He was to blame for not having noticed their interest before, in the same way that he was to blame for now having drawn perhaps more of their attentions. What was the saying, "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?" Well, he had just added two to the crowd he held within his embrace…he couldn't help but snicker at the dichotomy of it. He hadn't held anyone in his arms since forever and now he was holding legion closer than any lover. The dragoon mating dance, he thought bitterly.

He kicked his robes against the wall, walked to the fireplace, set the glass down on the hearth and clawed at the buttons that kept the fitted coat closed around him. He shrugged out of the garment and threw the jacket into one of the armchairs. Spitting out the word "Incendio," the resultant warmth from the blazing hearth fire confirmed that the cold on his skin was a chill seeping up out of his pores. Slowly he unbuttoned his stiffly starched dress shirt and in one fluid motion shook it from his body, balled it up and threw it with all his might into the fire. He watched it catch and marveled as a flower of regret bloomed inside his brain; the waste of fine cloth, craftsmanship and a month's wages.

He stood, staring into the flames, observing the shirt burn and collapse into a fine grey ash. He felt better for being rid of the heavier outer garments; his tightly cut black trousers, his leather boots and the shimmering pale gold of the finely woven undershirt gave him a feeling of personal freedom he never felt in his coat and robes, although he did wish that his best shirt had not been sacrificed.

Retrieving his glass, he dropped himself into an armchair. He took a deep breath and then another and then another and wondered if perhaps he might be on the verge of tears.

Great Hecate, he thought to himself, I'm having some sort of nervous breakdown.

'Katla Freyan' The sound of her name played inside his head. He remembered the other one's name and let it fall from his lips like a reverent prayer, "Gerda Solveig."

Yes, it was going to be tears, he realized, and with the same dread and revulsion usually reserved for vomiting, Snape squared his shoulders and willed his body not to betray him in that way. He would rather retch his emotions out than succumb to tears. He leaned forward and placed the heavy tumbler on the floor, with both hands locked behind his neck, he pulled his head down to his knees. He counted to ten in Latin, then on to twenty in French, to thirty in German, forty in Gaelic and finally, finally began to feel his eyes harden and his throat relax.

Leaning back again in the chair, he grasped two handfuls of the golden shirt that had come to define the hidden parts of him over the past nine years. He rolled the material between his thumbs and forefingers, marveling at it. His mind opened to the remembrance of her floor-length braid, the witch who sawed at its great thickness with glinting shears, the one who washed it clean of vomit and blood, the other witch who wove it while singing a wordless song of numbing loss.

He remembered the first weeks of his harrowing need to scratch it off his body and then the slow resignation to it, to its unique discomfort; the shirt that had been made from Gerda Solveig's pale blonde hair.