The week dragged on and Snape felt as though he were trudging through a wood darkened by an endless night, stumbling beneath an interminable new moon. He had somehow lost his way. The staff meeting appeared like a dawn-drenched meadow.
He sat stiffly, flanked again, by the two librarians. Since the last meeting he knew he had become a focus for them and he was frustrated at their tenacious pursuit. They would not relent, choosing to interpret his hostility through their own longings, hearing flirtatious banter in his dismissive words. He would just as soon not speak to them again, but he used the library extensively and realized it would be disadvantageous to alienate them. Things were difficult enough in his life without having to hurdle obstacles of his own making. As it was, he had not ventured into the library once in the past seven days.
He fumed immobile, caught between the twins, he would not move, would not breath out audibly, would not even bend to collect a quill. Any movement from him seemed to be echoed by them. It ground his nerves raw.
He had caught them looking at him near constantly, at meals, in the hallways, at the Quidditch match on Saturday. Perhaps it only seemed constant as there were two of them and he assumed that their attentions were a sort of tag team between them. Or perhaps he had become more aware of their observances because he was acutely aware of his own intense concentration upon the Norn witch, Katla Freyan.
She was sitting now, at the edge of gathered chairs. Snape considered for a moment who would befriend her, the staff were not unfriendly by any means, but close friendships were not a part of the life in Hogwarts. Working relationships tied to a common goal held everyone together, and the shared history that some held between them filled in the emptier spaces where casual friendship would grow in any other place of employ. Hogwarts was not employment but family. A family of elderly relatives who meant you well.
He wanted to look across the room to where she sat. He wanted to stare at her openly and sink into a kind of mesmerized stupor brought on by her movements, her expirations. He found himself wishing he could answer the thoughtful questions he believed he saw in her eyes. But he could not bring himself to approach her; instead he waited like parched earth for the mention of her name to rain upon him. He had even caught himself obliquely eavesdropping upon students if they were discussing her or her classroom.
He watched her from the corners of his dark eyes, unable to control this heedfulness. She was no longer veiled and had begun wearing staff robes, but of a sky blue and with the contrast of her blonde braid she still projected her homeland to his eyes. She turned her head slightly and her gaze slid to the window. A great longing seemed to pass over her features and he knew without question that she wanted to be outside. He let his own gaze follow hers to the glass and saw the rain rivuleting down its surface, the gray sky, just the tops of the forest. When he looked back to her, he saw how a triangle of pale flesh had been revealed down the length of her slim neck with the turn of her head, saw the delicate ear, the tendons taut under her skin, the small pulsation of a vein and he had to swallow deeply and look away.
With a sudden rush of possessiveness he was pleased that Quirrell had taken this year off, to go where? He found he did not care anymore. The younger man was gone, his slender, good-looking face and his thin elegantly-boned body were not here to step between Snape and this woman. His view of her was unobstructed.
The scraping of chairs indicated that the meeting had drawn to a close and he realized with a start that he had lost whole minutes of time, entire conversations and discussions had become a drone of sound that held no meaning and now they had faded away. He watched as Katla stood and stooped to pick up some brightly colored bag from off the floor at her feet, she looked over at him and smiled as she moved toward the door. She disappeared into the hallway.
Like being trapped in a recurring dream, he found himself alone in the staff room with the librarians. He decided to leave quickly and let their stares fall uselessly upon his back. He moved out of the grouping the three of them had formed upon rising. With too much purpose. They would not allow it.
"Professor Snape," both called softly in unison.
He stopped and bent his head slightly, watching them. He turned and faced them, then sighed in a bored voice, "The eat-me drink-me sisters."
Their beautiful faces faltered, but slowly broke into sly smiles, slipped like secret love notes to him.
One giggled and he decided he despised her for her stupidity. He raised a brow and closed an eye as he looked at her, searching for the clue that would tell her from the other. He wanted to compartmentalize them, recognize the stupid from the bright, label them and be done. He watched her blush under the heavy gaze of his inspection.
"You most obviously desire others to be flummoxed by a complete inability to identify either one of you individually." He stated this simply, but with an undercurrent of dismissal.
"Perhaps our distinguishing marks are best revealed in other circumstances," the other one now and Snape knew that she was the brighter of the two. He swiveled his head and caught her look, saw the challenge. She was moving this past veiled innuendo.
"Inelegant," he said simply and her face closed immediately. Peripherally he saw the other look sharply at her sister.
He would not break his gaze from her angry eyes. He held fast and watched as she stoked the fire of her fury, at his implication. Finally he spoke, "I would advise you not to allow your misguided emotions to burn so fiercely. You will not find an answering blaze in this quarter. Yours will be doused. All this," he hesitated, "passion drowned within a frozen sea."
Her mouth fell open.
"Ladies," he clipped out and was gone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He could smell snow. The promise of it was unmistakably carried on the chill wind biting at his naked haunches. He could not curl any tighter into himself. But the wings. He could wrap himself in the wings. With a great heaving effort between his shoulders he brought the huge wings down around the sides of his body, he felt them scrape heavily against the icy dirt. He wanted to raise his body up, draw them over his arms, around his torso, but he was still prostrated. She was coming for him. He should not stand, he should not move. He must wait still. She would help him to his feet. He felt the thick, arching edge of the wings press against his head then slide between him and the earth and he was warmed. He slept in grey feathers.