The meeting of minds in the kitchen at Twelve Grimmauld place lasted almost three hours, and it was after midnight before Severus finally Flooed himself into his office at Hogwarts. The discussion had been ultimately unprofitable, though he had to admit that the twins were already living up to expectations. It had taken perhaps half an hour to bring them all up to speed, and to explain everything that had been happening, and even after the explanation there were still questions in the children's eyes. And horror. Severus could only hope that Ron would find a way to bring his horrified expression under control before the next time they had to face each other in a classroom or in the Great Hall, because the youngest Weasley boy had taken to looking at him like he'd just announced that he would be singlehandedly ridding the world of 90% of the babies born in the next three weeks.
It isn't my bloody fault that the Dark Lord thinks he's going to have a massacre in my name, he thought sourly as he dusted off the remnants of the Floo traveling and glanced around his office to make sure nothing was out of place. As he let himself out and then reapplied the wards, Severus thought over the suggestions Fred and George had come up with.
Those two were a veritable fountain of ideas, and, even if only one in twenty was plausible, the sheer volume almost guaranteed something worth considering. And their first several suggestions had ranged from impossible to impossible given the logistics to just plain stupid. But then they'd suggested something that had taken Severus aback slightly—a Marauders' Map of England, more or less. It had been an intriguing idea, and certainly one that was being considered. Not a map of everyone in England, of course, but if it could be pared down to only show certain peoples' whereabouts… Unfortunately, Remus did not know how James and Sirius had made the map, and even Dumbledore had been perplexed by it, but the twins thought they had an idea and were planning to try something for tomorrow's meeting.
Tomorrow's meeting. Bloody hell. If it wasn't bad enough that he had to attend those meetings after the Death Eater meetings, now it seemed he was to be included in the next several of them, whether he was summoned to the Dark Lord's side or not.
Barring the success of the map idea, Hermione had suggested something almost as inspired. Severus had known about the "DA" meetings last year, as had Dumbledore and McGonagall and a number of other people. What they had not known was how the students knew when to meet, but, Hermione and Harry had exchanged meaningful glances, then launched into an explanation about coins that changed the words when Harry changed the words on his coin. But, interesting though the idea had been, Severus had been forced to shake his head. Just when was he supposed to take the time from a Death Eater summons to charm a coin into revealing his location? Hermione had delfated slightly at that, and Severus could tell that she'd been hoping she had the brilliant idea that would save the day. Harry, however, had made an off-handed comment, "Too bad we can't just wire you and make it a sting operation."
And, while Harry spent the next ten minutes trying to explain to everyone what that meant, precisely (apparently something to do with cameras, microphones and transmitting devices that could be attached to a person, and then a very dramatic swooping in of highly trained people to get the bad guys—Severus thought Harry had been watching too much of that Muggle television contraption) Hermione had been thinking. Very carefully, apparently. Severus could see the wheels turning in her mind. When she spoke finally, her words had been almost thoughtful. "Why not?" And, when all heads had turned towards her, she'd repeated it. Why couldn't they attach a very small camera to Severus somehow, and charm it so that a coin or something would show his location? Which would work, provided it was an easily recognizeable location. But if it was just a field somewhere… Hermione had nodded thoughtfully, and Severus knew she wasn't finished with the idea, and he hoped she came up with something feasible.
Ron had not made a single contribution other than his horrified expression until this point, and when he did finally open his mouth, he very nearly found himself in severe trouble. His suggestion had been rude and malicious, essentially that Severus should just tell the Dark Lord that he was a spy and that the Order was on its way. To bluff, apparently. Dumbledore had refused flat out to even consider such a thing, and everone else at the table had been equally adamant. Even Moody had admitted that there was too great a risk for no certain gain, though Severus had little doubt that Moody wouldn't be upset to see him sacrifice himself. Severus had been quiet until the outrage settled, then assured Ron quietly, "If I thought it would work, I wouldn't hesitate. But the Dark Lord is not so easily fooled." There hadn't been another word from Ron all night.
Ginny, after almost two hours of complete silence, had asked the question that ended the meeting. What would happen if they didn't stop the attack? All eyes had been on Severus as he replied, coldly and matter-of-factly, that the victims would prvide blood for the Death Eaters' consumption until they died. No one had seemed interested in further conversation after that, and finally they'd adjourned.
When he reached the door to his personal quarters, which contrary to popular speculation were nowhere near the dungeons, Severus paused. The portrait over the door was of an alchemist, the lamp on his desk burning low as he bent over a bubbling flask of brilliantly red liquid.
"Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim," Severus said, and the alchemist swung the door open absently, still watching the flask, and Severus stepped into his study, shutting the door with a sigh.
"Long day, dear?"
Severus glanced at the painting that had spoken, an elderly woman who was reading a book. Of the few paintings that hung in Severus' rooms, that one was very likely his favorite, and he'd secured a painting of a librarian with rows of books so that she would have other tomes to read. And, he noticed often, she took advantage of that gesture. The book she was putting down now was not the study of Asian plants he had last seen her reading.
"Very long," he replied. "Do you want me to leave the lamp burning?"
She gestured at the faint light in her painting. "No, dear, not unless you want it on."
"Good night," he replied, walking into his sitting room. There were no paintings in there, save a soothing landscape mountain scene. He'd never seen a mountain, and always thought he'd like to someday. Just now, the mountain was bathed in moonlight, and it looked serene and peaceful, yet cold.
Shrugging out of his cloak, he draped the fabric over the back of a chair, then went to the sideboard, pouring himself a liberal draught of cognac. He held the bowl of the glass in his hand, letting the heat from his body warm the fragrant liquid, and walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, pausing here and there to straighten something that only he would think in need of straightening.
Shelves lined the entire east wall of the room, and those shelves were all filled with books that he'd acquired over the years. Many of them were tomes about potions, or potion ingredients, and there was an entire shelf dedicated to herbology, but not everything on the shelves was so practical. On the bottom, maybe four feet from the corner and stretching nearly eight feet along the floor, was a collection of Muggle poetry, which he dearly loved to read at times. Muggles had a fascinating brand of imagination, and the most imaginative of their authors and poets sometimes crept so close to the truth that it was frightening. Three shelves up from the poetry, nestled between a battered copy of Bathilda Bagshott's A History of Magic and the newest edition of Hogwarts: A History, there was an art book, full of vivildy colorful paintings by a Muggle named Van Gogh. Severus found those fascinating, and his fascination was further borne out by the painter's biography, which graced the top shelf. He knew where all his favorite books were without looking for them, which was just as well, given his tendency to bury them between boring books so that anyone silly enough to look at his shelves would, hopefully, gaze past them.
He knelt, running a fingertip over the spines of the books on the second shelf from the bottom, and after a moment, his finger stopped on a dark blue book with silver script on the spine. The Magic of a Moment, it said, and Severus paused there, looking at it. He'd never read it, and he wasn't sure he ever would, but it was meaningful to him. Aislinn had given it to him as one of her birthday gifts to him. Now, as he touched it, he could almost see her eyes sparkling in the dim light, dancing with laughter.
What's this? He'd asked her. She had smiled one of her infectuous smiles and replied, It's a book of charms. A Muggle book of charms. It's full of myths and legends. He'd flipped through it, and found that it was, indeed. The history of the wishing well. The origin of shooting star lore. The legend of the four-leaf clover. He'd smiled a genuine smile and shook his head. You're going to make a believer of me yet, aren't you? he had asked her softly. I'm going to do everything in my power to, she had replied.
Severus stood abruptly and decided that he wasn't in the mood to read after all. Taking a sip of the cognac, he walked over to the fireplace, rubbing his thumb over a smudge on the marble. Satisfied that it was gone, he glanced at the mantle before turning away, and he stopped. There, on the walnut mantle, was a simple stone. Irregularly shaped, nearly black, flecked with silver, it could have been any rock, but it was not.
She stepped into his rooms and placed aside a package that she'd been holding in her hands, then wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close to her. As they embraced, Severus found it hard to believe that he'd ever doubted her, even having seen what he did. There had to be some logical explanation, but he wasn't going to ask her for it. He was going to believe in her, and trust her and…
"I've missed you," she murmured, and he was drawing her to the chair.
"I've missed you, too," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her. She pulled back, though, and placed a finger over his lips.
"I have something for you," she said softly, and he frowned slightly, reaching behind him to pull the stool forward and settling onto it.
"Whatever it is," he whispered, "I'd rather have you."
She laughed softly, and ducked out of the chair, and retrieved the package she'd brought in with her, and placed it in his hands. It wasn't terribly large, small enough to hold in one hand, in fact. It wasn't precisely heavy, but it was solid-feeling. Wrapped in emerald-green paper and tied with a big silver bow, it looked almost surreal. Particularly in his sitting room, where there was no other indication that Christmas was tomorrow.
"I didn't get you anything," he whispered softly, staring at the box.
Aislinn smiled and placed three fingers under his chin, lifting his face. "That isn't the point," she whispered back. "Now open it."
He hesitated, and felt her eyes on him as he ran a fingertip over the ribbon. Without looking at her, he answered the unspoken question. "I don't remember the last time…" he trailed off, feeling a lump in his throat. He did actually remember the last time someone had given him a Christmas present, but he didn't want to think about that.
Aislinn's moved to the floor, kneeling at his side, her hand on his arm. "Open it," she urged gently, and, finally, he tugged at the ribbon and slid his fingertip under the tape holding down the edge of the package. The paper fell away to reveal a plain cardboard box, which he opened slowly, peering inside. He paused as the light fell on the object within.
"It's a rock," he stated the obvious, quite obviously confused. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand, frowning in concentration. It was an interesting enough rock, to be sure, but it was… a rock. Dark, flecked with something that shimmered, slightly charred looking, as though it had been pulled from a fire. He looked up at her, and she was grinning broadly.
"Not a rock," she replied, leaning over to kiss the end of his nose (which was enough to momentarily startle him out of his confusion over the rock).
"Then what is it?" he asked, and she touched his fingers softly, leaning her head against his.
"It's a shooting star," she whispered softly. His face must have given away his continued confusion, because she explained further. "A meteorite. One that actually hit the earth. So you will always have physical proof of a shooting star."
He laughed suddenly, then clamped his mouth shut, afraid he would offend her, but she was grinning too. "Well," he said, "it still remains to be seen if I can wish on it and the wish comes true."
"And!" she said suddenly, standing. She pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed it at the meteorite, then placed her hand on it and whispered, "Portricus." The next thing Severus knew, he was standing in the middle of Aislinn's bedroom, the meteorite cupped in both their hands.
It was also a portkey, and a simple incantation would still transport him to her room. Of course, she would not be there now.
He took another sip of his cognac and turned away from the fireplace, studiously ignoring the mirror above the mantle; he'd little doubt he looked like death warmed over, and he didn't want to see it. Not now. He could feel it, and that was bad enough. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he moved away from the fireplace. Settling into a chair, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, attempting to clear his mind. He'd never had trouble clearing his mind, not since the first time he ever managed to do it; it was a trick that took a great deal of effort to master, but was surprisingly easy after one got the hang of it. To his frustration, though, it did not come easily tonight, so he resorted to an old imagery technique from his early days of learning it. He imagined a black hole in the middle of his mind, and began systematically poking his thoughts and memories into it.
In went the Weasley twins and their Wheezes. In went Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and Mary Poppins and tea parties on the ceiling. In went the Billywigs and the Dark Lord's burning eyes and the musky, smoky smell of insense. In went Dumbledore and his Muggle prayer of serenity. Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody, Molly and Arthur, Tonks and Bill. The Death Eaters, Snape's Massacre, Amber Carlisle and Autumn… he'd already succeeded in forgetting her last name. He fed his thoughts into the black hole in his mind, and one by one, they left him, until all he had was Aislinn swimming around in his head. He drew a ragged breath and tried to prod her into the hole, but she protested.
It appeared that the entire universe had come crashing to the floor of that classroom, and right in the middle of it, blinking as though stunned, was a young woman with thick dark hair that hung lopsided out of what had likely once been a bun of some sort. A bookshelf was lying on the floor, books and papers scattered everywhere, and a chair was toppled behind her, the desk it belonged with sitting slightly askance. All around her, spheres of different sizes and colors were rolling slightly back and forth, and, when he squinted he could see nearly invisible threads draped over her, like a spider's web.
"Are you hurt?" he asked in his soft voice that commanded attention.
The woman blinked owlishly up at him, and shook her head, though he wasn't sure if she was answering him or trying to clear her mind, but as she squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again, he decided it was the latter. She had almost the look of a woman trying to decide if she was looking at a ghost or flesh and blood, and it was marginally disarming. "Are you injured?" he asked again, sweeping his robes out of the way as he stepped over the debris to kneel in front of her. He reached out, his fingertips brushing her cheek as he turned her head to him, and he was certain that time that there was a flicker of something across her eyes. Recognition, perhaps?
"Pr-, erm. Hello," she offered, leaning back a bit and ducking away from his touch. He let his hand drop away from her face, and she seemed to regain a bit of her senses. "I'm fine," she answered at last, and placed her hand on the floor, to brace herself to rise, but winced instead.
He reached for the hand and picked it up, turning it over in his own, palm up, to find a shard of glass imbedded in it. Again, something crossed her face, this time a shadow of fear, perhaps, and she made a feeble attempt to pull her hand away from him. Most men would have likely let go, just knowing that she was pulling away, but Severus tightened his grip instead. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked as he fished into his pocket with his free hand and brought out a linen handkerchief, which he wrapped around her hand and tied tightly.
"I'm fine," she repeated, this time sounding a bit more sure of herself. "Thank you for your concern, though. I'll just..." she didn't finish her sentence before beginning to rise, but her hand was still caught in his, and he prevented her from standing.
"You're sure, Miss--?" His lips thinned marginally. That was actually a very good question. Who was she? She looked too old to be one of the students, and besides, he made it a point to know all the Hogwarts students by name. He had to; he taught them all eventually. This one, though, despite looking vaguely familiar, was not one of his students, of that he was sure.
"Ichalia," she replied, using her free hand to move her hair gracefully out of her eyes. "Aislinn Ichalia. I am the new divination teacher."
He lifted his glass to his mouth and leaned his head back, tipping the entire contents down his throat, like pouring lava over hot coals. When he opened his eyes again, the room was still there, as was the memory, though not quite so brilliant. He stood and went back to the sideboard, reaching for the cognac again. His hand hovered momentarily over the crystal decanter, but his eyes were on a bottle of sherry, and once again, the memory mounted.
He had been edging closer to her for the past fifteen minutes, moving his hand by degrees, giving her every chance to move away, and when she did, it tore at his pride. She only moved as far as the wine bottle, though, and then settled again. "More?" she asked, holding up the bottle, and he nodded, offering his own glass.
She steadied the bottom of the glass with her fingertips and tipped the bottle, but he suddenly stopped her, his hand over hers. "You don't have the slightest idea what you're doing, do you?" he asked softly, and she stared at him for a moment.
"I'm pouring…" she stated the obvious, and he laughed softly, making her eyes flash indignantly.
"I can see that," he whispered. He took the bottle from her hand and picked up her glass, tilting it towards the bottle, then tipping the bottle slightly. "Wine is not punpkin juice, Miss Ichalia," he chided softly, and, from her silence, he assumed this was news to her. He continued in a silen voice. "You don't simply splash it into a glass. It requires more care. More subtlty." The golden liquid flooded gently from the bottle, cascading down the side of the glass and pooling in the bottom, and he tilted the bottle deftly away, stemming the flow, then held up the glass to the light.
"Sherry isn't so prone to bruising as other wines," he said softly, "but all wine is delicate." He put the bottle back in her hand, then moved to sit behind her, and reached forward, picking up his own glass and wrapping her fingers around it. "Tilt the glass towards the bottle," he whispered against her ear. She tilted the bottle a bit, but not enough by half, so he reached around her, tilting the bottle more sharply, then moved his other hand around hers, urging the glass to tilt as well. "Then bring the mouth of the bottle almost to the rim of the glass, but not touching it," he instructed, and, as if on cue, the musical tinkling of glass against glass tickled his ears and he smiled. "It's all right," he said, reassuring her softly, "slowly… there." He smiled as the liquid began to slip silkily from the bottle, swirling to a rest in the bottom of the glass. "No more than three-fourths full," he told her, his finger indicating a place on the glass, "but at least two-thirds. And slowly tilt the bottle back again…" He reached forward and took the glass from her, his fingers curling casually around the bowl, the stem dangling between his fingers. "Perfect," he breathed into her ear.
He set the bottle aside, and she was still in his arms, not moving, but he didn't know what to do with her. He'd never even tried to seduce a woman before; his limited experience with them falling more on the side of force than subtle convincing, and it had been years since he'd done even that. Her hair smelled of a heady, spicy scent that was far more intoxicating than the wine, and her nearness stirred something in him that he'd long assumed dead. It wasn't just his body, but every fiber of his being that was responding to her. And, the bittersweet knowledge that she wanted nothing more than friendship from him. The frustration was almost palpable.
Suddenly, she leaned back against him, and he stiffened, sruprised at the gsture, wary of tricks. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked him softly, looking up into his eyes. She pulled his hand around her waist, and reached for the other hand. He was still holding his sherry glass, though a little urging from her fingers was enough to make him set it aside. Both his arms were circling her waist now.
"Not precisely," he whispered softly.
She crossed her arms and touched his elbows, drawing his arms more tightly around her. "Then what is it?" she asked quietly.
You're teasing me, he thought almost bitterly. Don't tease. It's cruel. She had to know the effect she was having on him, and he struggled to keep his composure. And to find an answer to her question. "I suppose," he replied at last, "that I'm unsure what you want from me. It hasn't been long at all since you were telling me you had no interest…"
She nodded, and for a long, awful moment, she was quiet, and he was afraid she was going to stand and stomp out of the room. She did not, though. "God help me, Severus," she whispered into the air, staring at the fire, "I'm not sure I know what I want from you either."
The glass he was holding slipped through his fingers, and it hit the stone floor, shattering. For a moment, he stared at it, his lips dry as parchment, and then he turned away. This was torture. He'd thought it was bad earlier in the evening, when everyone he looked at had that damnable sympathy in their eyes, but this was far worse, and for the first time in his life, he wished there was someone else with him. Anyone. He wished he had Aislinn with him, of course, but barring that, anyone would do. Albus. Remus. Even that brat, Potter.
Remember, though, that you know the password to my office. Put that knowledge to use, Severus.
For a moment, he considered it. He considered going to Dumbledore's office, but after a hesitation, he decided against it. After all, generous though the invitation had been, he doubted it was intended for half past one in the morning, which was what the clock was chiming softly now. And, that was largely the same reason he wouldn't return to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, though something told him that Remus wouldn't mind being woken. With a sigh, he moved into his bedroom, and unbuttoned the green shirt he was still wearing. No one had commented on it all night, but it was unusual for him to be dressed so. He had forgotten about it.
As he tossed the shirt aside and began unbuttoning his trousers, he suddenly remembered the vial in his pocket, and he removed it, holding it up to the faint light. A small, cylindrical tube of pale grey powder; it could have been anything. It was all he had left of her now, except the memories he wished he could forget. He placed the vial of ashes on his bedside table and sat on the bed, easing off his shoes and socks, and then standing to shed himself of the pants. He gathered the clothes and moved to the wardrobe, tossing them into the bottom of it and reaching in, intending to pull out the flannel nightshirt he slept in when he wasn't in Aislinn's arms. Which was always now. His hand went to one of his black robes instead, though, and after a moment, he pulled it on. He didn't really want to go to bed just now, anyway. Not yet. Not until he thought he could without falling into an abyss of sorrow.
After pocketing his wand, he walked silently through his rooms and emerged back into the corridor, looking around. He was accustomed to prowling the corridors at night, and perhaps it would take his mind off Aislinn. It didn't take him long, though, to discover just how many places he had been with her. They had laughed in the entrance hall, and enjoyed a picnic in the astronomy tower. He'd walked the path between the dungeons and her classroom, between his rooms and hers so many times that those routes were ingrained in his mind and deeply entwined with her memory. The entire castle seemed to whisper of her, to remind him of where they had been and what they had done, not that he needed help remembering. He needed help forgetting.
Finally, his meanderings took him to the Slytherin Common Room, and, muttering the password "Aconite" to the portrait guarding the entrance, he stepped inside. It was one place where her memory wouldn't follow him, surely. He looked around the opulently furnished room, running his hand over the green velvet that upholstered sofas and chairs as he walked past them. The fire had burned almost to ashes, and only the faintest glow illuminated the room. Making a slow circuit, he paused here to straighten a stack of books, there to pick up a piece of parchment that someone had dropped. The room was empty of life, as he'd expected since it was so late, but there were whispers everywhere of the people who occupied it during waking hours. Idly, he walked to the bulletin board, and leafed through the announcements tacked to it—schedules and notices, rules and resources. Someone had included a list of the "Top Ten Reasons Gryffindor Sucks" and Severus read the first two before shaking his head and turning away. Finally, he settled onto the sofa in front of the fire, and stared into that gaping black void for a long moment before pointing is wand at it. "Incendio," he murmured, and the flames roared back to life.
As he stared at them, he found himself drifting back, not six months as he'd been so wont to do all evening, but twenty years. Back to when he was a student and had spent many a night sitting by this fire, reading a book. Avoiding everyone else when he possibly could. Trying not to draw attention. Usually succeeding.
The sound of a door opening brought his attention to the doors to the dormitories, and he frowned slightly at the girls' door standing slightly ajar. A small, dark-haired figure emerged from the shadows, apparently oblivious to his presence. She was wrapped in a dark green dressing gown, and shivering slightly; he noted distantly that she was barefoot. But it was having his attention locked to that door that made him realize that even here he could not escape Aislinn's memory. He had seen her coming out of that door once before, and it had been then, demanding an explanation, that they'd finally begun to talk to one another. To really talk.
But it wasn't Aislinn now who had emerged from that door. It was Amber, her sister. He watched for several silent moments as the girl looked around, and then closed the door softly, tiptoeing to the chair nearest the fire, still having yet to give any indication that she knew he was there. Finally, he cleared his throat softly, and she whipped around to face him. He didn't move from his seat on the couch.
"Why are you out of bed?" he asked softly.
A/N:
Thank you for your flattering reviews, both of you.
And incidentally, anyone who read Still Waters is probably picking up that my approach this time is very different. I'm using this story as an exercise in character relationships (not just romantic ones) so I'm really working on putting Snape into contact with a lot of different people whom he will feel differently about. I'd love to hear everyone's takes on how he responds to various people.
Also, along the same lines… this isn't developing into any kind of 'ship' necessarily. There is no Snape/Lupin in the works, and no Snape/Hermione and nothing else of that sort. If (and that's a big if at this point) I develop a romantic relationship anywhere, it will be Snape with another female OC.