Chapter Two

Are you frightened of dying?

Drawing ragged breath after ragged breath through wind-chapped lips, over leather dry tongue, down torn shreds of throat; thin hands clutched tightly about the cold stone of the windowsill, body stark to the chill of the morning, he tries to stand. Knees do not shake, nor does his torso; only arms, arms weak with exhaustion, arms weak with misery. Arms that cannot with stand the weight of the burden shouldered on this thin frame. Hair hangs in filthy clumps about a thin, twisted face; eyes squeezed shut against the weak light of winter illuminating the landscape.

Blue fills the pale skin, flesh alive with tiny reminders of the freezing bite to the morning chill. He does not turn away, but faces the break of dawn, determination rising in his features, the band of silver about his finger warming as if flowing with blood. As if pulsing with a very heartbeat; and the warmth spreads like honey, thick and slowly; to fingers, from there, to hands, gnarled with wear and time, to arms as sinewy as a rope, till it fills his lungs, flushes his face and throat, spreading across the skin stretched from bone to bone. As if rising from the dead, he lifts his face to the sun and eyes of pain burst open, accepting the pale light, accepting the blinding white of the landscape, accepting the destiny this dawn brings in its open hands.

The ring throbs on his finger, speaking to him and only him, a darkness flooding from heart to bone. As he turns from his post, his sight wanders about the room, resting on the darkened curls covering the pillows ...

Fighting time, so much I ask, will this moment last forever ...

Severus allowed his dark gaze to penetrate those green depths a moment too long, and he felt a slight shiver tingle down his spine, resting.. the silence lengthened, he dared naught move, why, he didn't know. A hint of pink tongue nipped at full lips, moistening, before disappearing.

"Well? What do you say, Professor?" long lashes dove to cover those green oceans, a hint of a blush coloring the tips of elflike ears. Severus felt the familiar clench in his hands, the painful bite of nail into flesh, and drew a rattling breath.

"I have always trusted Professor Dumbledore's judgment, I see no reason to doubt it now," the girl—no, his mind corrected the arrogant assumption, the woman's shoulders lowered, a slight sigh of relief rushing its warm breath towards him, "However," the tension returned immediately, "this is my class, and I will run it as I see fit. You are not to interfere with my judgment calls, whether you deem them fair or not. Are we clear?" A glitter of audacity sparked from her.

"I will speak when I feel that you are unjust, I will not stand by and let my morals be completely tossed aside just so you can enact some childish grudge against students who may be different—just as you were more than likely different in your own time, Professor, if you are not still considered so today. If you behave in anyway that is unfair towards those undeserving, I will personally see to it that the injustice committed is wronged, publicly or not. Is that clear?" the steely edge to those words as they crossed such soft lips seemed to off set the balance of the room, a cold hand clutched the slick stones beside chestnut locks. Not a flinch or a flicker of fear from her, as he leaned dangerously towards those lips, every word spoken carefully, with as much restraint within him.

"I understand that I am speaking to an arrog—"her face suddenly blank, she turned soulless eyes wordlessly over his shoulder. Whirling with the swiftness of a panther, Severus found a pair of emerald green eyes narrowed dangerously at the scene unfolding, "Potter!" he snarled, venomous hatred filling his entire being almost as swiftly as pain, "Get into the classroom or else ten points from Gryffindor!" as the boy hesitated a moment, before skulking into the room, he knew before his eyes returned to her face what was brewing within.

"As you have just proven, Severus, you are capable of nothing more than petty anger and spiteful threats." Her tone was rising with the steam of pent up anger, waiting to erupt for far longer than this moment called for, "I see nothing has changed within your heart, and as for Professor Dumbledore, although wise, I see his judgment has been misplaced in placing you in a position of such authority. If he were to know what insidious—"

"I would prefer it, Juniper, if you would refrain from commenting on the past as much as possible when it comes to your morals and to my authority. You always did seem to have a way with twisting situations to suite yourself and your needs more appropriately than anyone else's, am I not mistaken? So before you question the judgment of a man you once trusted with your life, and if I am not entirely wrong with assuming this, you are trusting once again with your life, you will keep those lips of yours tightly locked, and allow your personal opinions to stay in that small brain of yours, and yours alone." The silky speech seemed to flow more easily from his lips than they did from the heart; which lurched as those green depths narrowed, body drawing against the slime-covered wall.

"The past, as we both know, Severus, creates the foundations of the future. If you feel my brain is small, and my opinions useless, I can see that the past has indeed set forth a most unsteady foundation for us to tread upon." With a whirl of green and blue, she strode away, positioning herself politely at the door of his classroom, body rigid. His teeth grinding in irritance, Severus walked sharply into the doorway, aware with every fiber of his being that she was more than a breadth behind him. Making way towards the head of the class, his gaze rested only moments on the new students, and then once again on Juniper, who had taken a post at the rear of the class.

"As you can all see, our numbers have decreased in Slytherin and gained in . others this year. For the newcomers, I will not tolerate a lack of knowledge. If you are in fifth year potions, you are expected to perform as well as any fifth year here—"

"I can promise you, Professor Snape, that my students are more than well prepared for your class." Clear as a bell, her voice rose from where she stood, a smile on those lips, but every word as deadly as a double-edged blade.

"One can only hope, Professor Lunar. After all, even my students have their own little problems." He allowed one of his most darkened glares rest upon Neville Longbottom, perhaps one of the most incompetent students he had. The boy seemed to tremble, wide, watery eyes blinking several times. He felt a slight shudder down his spine at the familiarity of that gaze, "Let us begin, shall we? Today we will brew a potion for hysteria. This was most popular several years ago to produce amazing effects of hysteria on muggles. The potion must steep for three days, during that time, we shall also develop the antidote, and when a week has passed, I believe a little testing to see whose potion produces the best results will be in order." A low murmur began through the students as they began to work; Neville looking particularly shaken as he destroyed the soft leaves of the alihotsy plant, one of the key ingredients in this potion. A wave of regret surged through Severus. Children like Neville pained him to watch, for their struggles only made the most dangerous of magical arts that much more.

His gaze was steady when resting on the bent heads of students, but he felt them compelled to return to her, as she glided about the room. No, glided was not the word to describe the way she moved. She was a clumsy, small thing. Always had been, but it was half of her charm, the way she seemed to fall into your body and into your life. As she paused near Harry Potter, Severus felt a tremulous surge of bitterness well in his throat, souring his mouth. He had never cared for the Potters to begin with; and his dislike had grown from the moment that scarred boy walked into his classroom. Carefully, he made his way between tables and simmering cauldrons, eyes steadily rapt on that tiny back bent over the table. It was with a brief bit of shock and almost glee that he realized Potter's fire was not lit beneath his cauldron.

The enormity of that woman's heart was revealed to all as she moved to Neville Longbottom and a bushy-haired girl's table, gently removing the knife from Neville's shaking hands, which were dangerously close to severing fingers in most grotesque manner. Lips pursing ruefully, he descended upon the boys with all the intimidation he could render in his spine.

"Potter and Weasely, behind again, I see." The red-haired comrade of Harry, Ron Weasely, seemed poised in action, his eyes fearful. Very much aware of the return of anger brewing behind him, Severus drew his arms up, thoughtful and threatening, "I think a good detention might help you two to learn to follow directions more carefully," his lips curled into an all too familiar sneer; it was a comforting feeling to his face.

"Come now, Professor Snape," hearing his name come from her sent a thrill down his spine, a painful lurch to his chest, and a new feeling. The feeling of pain he had repressed, surging through out him, and suddenly he wanted her to hurt as much as he hurt, even as she spoke, he knew he could, "Surely you can see that these boys aren't behind. They were merely making sure that they had their ingredients prepared before they lit their fire. No harm in that, after, all, it would be a waste to light a fire and not have your ingredients prepared for it in time." Very steadily, very carefully, he turned to her, and lowered his head. Her head barely met his chest, and he remembered, the countless times he had drawn that head into his breast, her tears staining his heart as it beat for her, and only her. The anger grew monumentous in those brief memories; memories of sitting in front of warm fires, conversing in low tones, shared jokes just for their minds and ears, the scent of her skin, the texture of her lips, the delicate yet firm touch of her fingers, and the dam broke.

"This is double potions," he was aware of the animosity in his voice, that he spat these words in her face, and her eyes seemed slightly taken aback, but she stayed still. Her pride had always cost them, "Professor Lunar. It would be impossible for these boys to not have their ingredients prepared before the end of class." The anger melted from those green fields, and a deep hurt replaced them. She knew his tones, his nature, his ways, and she knew what she had lost in those few precious seconds. Turning away, stiff as a china doll, she forced a wide smile across her face, feigning glee.

"Well, it seems their fire is lit now, so I see no need for a detention, right Professor Snape?" Her eyes rose to meet his. Snape felt the coils of anger begin to unwind at the pain etched in her eyes.

NO, He commanded himself; you will NOT let go this time. And the pain lodged deep within as he broke their gaze, moving towards Neville and his partner, Hermione Granger, the words slipping over his tongue even before he knew he spoke them, "Of course, Professor Juniper. You are, after all, a guest." He could feel her stiffen behind him, more than likely suppressing an urge to wrap her hands around his throat and choke him. The whispered murmur of her voice pricked his ears, as a most menacing gaze was fixed upon Longbottom, before she moved on, the rustle of her garments faint.

"I thought I told you to not interfere with my classes," he growled, lips close to her ears. An annoyed flit crossing her features as heavy brows drew together.

"You tell me a lot of things, Severus. I don't always listen, in case you haven't noticed." She retorted, gathering ingredients from the table beside them and moving to the supply cabinet. He followed swiftly, closing the door behind them as she shelved the various bottles and vials.

"You have embarrassed me in front of my students—"she whirled like a tigress, green eyes flashing, ready to strike.

"As you embarrassed me. Or have you forgotten that, Severus? You seem to forget a great many things when it comes to your own flaws. Don't you remember? Perhaps I should refresh your mind." the strain was visible as elf-like ears slowly became scarlet. He could feel his heart quickening, adrenaline coursing like wine through out his being. Ascending upon her like a king, feeling the smooth muscles within his fingers as he wrapped worn hands about warm arms, and drew her close.

"Don't. Toy. With. Me." The breath was low and dangerous, a slight recoil was found within the shadows of green.

Through thyne eyes, stare into me, I bare my heart for all to see

A wrench within and he released her, her breath coming in gasps as deep as his own. Backing into the door, flustered hands searching for the doorknob, and within seconds she was gone. Struck still for only moments, he found his eyes rooted for a moment on a blue vial, one that was familiar. Whose name was familiar, whose potency was familiar, whose use was familiar. A confident hand grasped the vial and tucked it safely with the depths of darkness within folds of an old cloak. Turning softly, eyes locking with piercing blue, he stumbled back.

"What is going on?" the words firm, the tone level and yet tender. A thick lump grew within his throat as he gazed at those large eyes, chocolate curls framing her face. She moved ever closer, her clean, rich scent filling the room. He longed to intake a breath and relish in it all, the softness of her gaze sending him back to reality.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Professor Solaris?" his question hung in the air, as he attempted to turn his attention to the remaining bottles and vials. She brushed between them, slender fingers darting to gather between his own.

"Please, call me Willow" a curt nod in reply as he swiftly retreated into the supply cabinet again, "it seems you upset Juniper quite a bit today."

"I believe those feelings are mutual."

"Your past seems to be catching up with you, Severus." She came closer still to him, catching a loose bottle from the crook of his arms, "And I know all of it." The last a purr, his skin tingled as he set those vials nearby and reached for a well-worn rag. Diligently, he began to clean the nearby beakers.

"Really? Has Juniper been talking?" he let the words hang in the air, aware of the dangerous grounds he had begun to tread.

"She talks a great deal, always a little chatterbox. But I'm sure you were aware of that."

"Hmm."

"I think Juniper has feelings for you." She murmured, placing a beaker above the worn basin he stood before, a ripple of understanding flooding inside of him.

"And if she does?"

"Well, if you don't return those feelings, you should tell her. She could become very attached otherwise." The faint taint of manipulation that spilled forth this time was enough.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Professor Solaris." With those final words, he stressed the dismissal he wished. However, Willow perched upon a nearby oaken table, its worn surface gleaming from oils and inexperienced hands having worked upon it diligently. Clear eyes watching intently, burning into his spine, as he shelved the remaining clean beaker and began inspecting several older herbs and vials, making sure none had reached their end.

"How long have you worked at Hogwarts, Professor?" her tone thin, attempting to be friendly.

"Long enough." Sharp on his tongue, he instantly regretted his haste. She was, after all, attempting to make harmless conversation. Nevertheless, his raw nerves warned him "How long have you been teaching, Professor Solaris?" he was level, civil this time. A wide, sparkling smile broke.

"About three years. I must say, I never anticipated becoming a teacher. I had bigger plans than this." One dark brow lifted quizzically.

"Really? Such as?" There were several bags of Enclayrous that had expired. Best to remove them before their stench ate through their leather bags.

"Acting, Hollywood, you know. I was on the rise, when news of He Who Must Not Be Named resurfacing reached America. Several of our most prized professors were disappearing. My old school needed help. Juniper was already a full time professor, and she helped Ivy and I—that's my sister—to get positions that suited us. And then, the terrible events of last year.." her voice trailing, she suddenly wrinkled her nose, a look of extreme disgust filling his vision, "What is that smell?"

"Enclayrous. A common plant found in Africa. Quite potent for potions involving rendering your victim an imbecile, also, an amazing sedative for insomnia. However, its life is not quite as long as one would hope. The smell of aged Enclayrous can be rather vicious, and over time, the plants oils can eat through almost anything. Then it is quite useful for combative purposes, however, I am afraid that this batch may reach full potency before its needed, and then.well. That would be a shame." He placed the rotting pouches in a strong metal chest that lay on the bottom most shelves, dusty from disuse.

"What happens when it reaches full potency?" Willow inquired, catching him off guard, as her scent filled him. She was crouching near, her skin cool, cloak gathered in slim hands.

"It—uh, it—"where was his tongue when he needed to speak most? "It creates a rather large explosion, that can kill anyone within a ten foot radius." A slight gasp from beside him.

"Isn't that horribly dangerous to house in a school?" dark eyes implored hers.

"Aren't the times these children are becoming men and women in horribly dangerous as it is? I see no fault in preparing to defend their lives, whatever the cost that may be." He straightened, with a deliberateness, striding away from her, to a washbasin, where he began to cleanse his hands, "Now, if you'll excuse me, Professor Solaris, I have work to attend to." Her eyes narrowed as she moved silkily towards the doorframe.

"There is no reason to be so callous, Severus. I was only trying to be kind. It would do you well, to try to show the same courtesy the next time we meet." With a swift tousle of her curled locks and a squaring of shoulders, she was gone. Severus dried his hands slowly, eyes resting on the now empty doorframe, the cloth rough in his hands.

And if rain brings with it change, let it rain on us forever.

It was a dull drizzle that pattered against the windows, the already drenched landscape shimmering beneath the grey sky above, clouds rolling in a haze. The fires that crackled merrily in the common rooms warmed damp students, as they studied and socialized.

It was down corridors of musty stillness, and eerie silences, that the chill crept. Under doors and through windows, pulling at clothing and draperies, settling in the lonely hearts of those shut away from the fires, and the social activity. Shut away from their masks and pride and ghosts. Wrapping fingers about like a long lost lover, it wormed into their souls, and drenched them with memories and pain.

"Its quite remarkable how the most mundane tasks can take away those painful memories of the past." A voice seemed to echo in the chamber, coming from behind. Fingers paused, as a dark head slowly turned towards the door. The firelight glowing on those straight, shorn locks, illuminating her curved figure as she rested against the stone frame, a sketchbook tucked beneath her arm, cloak of emerald clinging to her small figure. "Isn't it, Severus?" His eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned back to his instrument, strumming the chords gently. His only audience the broken desks and discarded chairs that lay about like bodies.

"Guitars are so cliché, hun." The words hung in the air.

"So are artists." He muttered, eyes flickering to the frame again, only to see it empty. With a heavy sigh, he continued to stroke his guitar; notes spilling forth like water, the tune jumpy, rough. Slowly, a melody formed, sweet, melancholic. Familiar. He stopped.

"God damn it." Severus struggled to force his fingers to find another tune, another song, anything that wasn't that particular one.

Several more notes came, and soon a more placid, simplistic echo filled his ears. For what seemed only like moments in his heart, but what was really hours, he strummed and stroked the worn chords. They were softer than stone, and yet as sharp as daggers to his ever-calloused fingertips. It was only when blood began to slip his fingers as he played that he stopped. The rain was still as heavy as it had been that morning, the sky the color of steel. Dark eyes slowly closed, feeling the icy chill of the room having settled within his joints. He couldn't stay here much longer, not with this dampness filling him. He would catch cold, and Severus would be damned if he would have that lunatic Poppy pouring her horrid potions down his throat, claiming it was in the name of health. Oh no.

Placing his old friend in its battered case, he moved to the hall, fingers tightening protectively around the handle. Eyes darting warily, he strode purposefully towards a tapestry, in one movement, he pulled it back and began to ascend the musty stairwell behind. It was a well-known shortcut, to Slytherin house, for it led from their rooms to an entrance right by the Great Hall. Where most exited, Severus froze and reached his hands above him, fingers trailing till they reached a chipped brick. He pressed firmly, and a small opening formed. Glancing about one last time, he gripped a rusted rung and swung his thin frame into darkness, guitar case following close behind. He crawled swiftly through the narrow tunnel, until a shaft of light pierced through the gloom, revealing a well-like opening that led upwards. More metal rungs, some covered with mossy slime, came beneath his palms as he scaled his way free. Finally, his head broke into clean air, the thick scent of rain washing over his sweat lined face as he gazed about ruefully.

The circular room was hidden in one of the topmost towers of Hogwarts, and known only by he, Dumbledore and perhaps a few other professors who longed for solitude on occasion. He had discovered it while he still was a student and the headmaster had allowed him to clean it, furnish it and make it his own over time. It was stark, by contrast to most of the common rooms, but it was still his. A fireplace where an old painting hung above, the worn yet supple rug thrown nearby, a few mismatched chairs and pillows, a music stand, the sagging bookshelves, and numerous journals scattered about where like a family to him. One entrance, only a few windows, whose draperies were flung open, and the toilet and sink enclosed in their own little room. The sound of running water met his ears, muscles tensed as he raised his wand, watching the mahogany door slowly open.

"I was wondering when you would get here." She stated simply, while drying her hands.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, pocketing his wand, wiping grimy hands on dirty robes, as he heaved the guitar case to his shoulder, dumping it by the window. She never answered, but he saw that she was gazing at the painting over the fireplace, in which a fire roared.

"You kept it." Her voice was low, throaty. Severus pulled his soiled robes off, and moved into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, fully aware of the appreciative glint in her eyes as they raked over his toned torso. He ran the water over his hands, scrubbing mercilessly, steadying his nerves as best he could. Why did she have to come here? When he needed to be away from people now more than ever? Surely, she had forgotten the way, or so he had hoped. But apparently not, he chided himself internally. She wasn't stupid, he remind himself as he dug about the cabinets that held his most comfortable and comforting robes. He glanced in the mirror. Better, but not by much. Maybe if he pulled his hair back—then again, she had always loved the way it hung about his face—

NO. He mentally corrected himself as he dragged it into a long ponytail. Hands reaching for the doorknob, he calmed that throbbing organ in his chest. When he wrenched it open at last, she was out of his sight, a steaming mug of tea placed near a chair. His eyes flickered about, and rested on her as she stood by the entrance, eyes mournful. Her robes clung to her, soft to his eyes. He felt that longing rise again, radiating into his cold soul like it had so many times before

"I—"her eyes darted once more to the painting, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Severus. I'll see you in class?" the last of her words brusque, as she moved swiftly down, her footsteps an echo. He stood frozen, eyes slowly roving around the room. In the farthest part, an easel was folded against the wall, the table beside it neatly arranged; watercolors and sketchbooks lined up, pictures hidden away, and a red chest, safely locked. How many of her books had melted into his own collection over the years? How many of the used journals were filled with her thoughts?

Numb, he retreated to his chair by the fire, thoughts of playing receding in his mind. Absentmindly, he pulled a warm blanket over his legs, while taking a sip of the warm tea. Peppermint; no surprise, she always loved to drink peppermint tea on rainy days. It had grown on him over time, preferable to the strong black tea he always drank—but there was a hint of something else in the tea. Could it be? He sniffed the wafting tendrils of steam, and took another, smaller sip.

She had blended his black tea and a daub of honey with the peppermint. A fist seemed to tighten around his heart, and he suddenly wished he hadn't been so dismissive. An ache filled his bones then, and the memory of a never forgotten pain that had torn him away from something that had seemed so special. Clenching his jaw decisively, Snape placed the mug firmly back on the table beside him and strode towards an old, battered liquor cabinet. The slightly rusty hinges hardly squeaked as he swung open the small doors. It took only a moments worth of rummaging to find what he had been craving ever since those green eyes had pierced his soul once again, ever since those blue ones had entered his life, ever since this bloody war had begun yet again. The blue bottle was dusty with disuse, as well as the chipped shot glass he withdrew with it. However, the sugar cubes he had sealed in a cloth pouch with a freshening spell, were still suitable. With a few flicks of the wrist, the shot glass seemed to glow as he poured the bright green liquid, and in moments he had lit a small flame beneath the dingy spoon he had placed the sugar cube on and the bittersweet liquid was down, followed by another shot. Sorrow filled his brown eyes as he gazed out the window into the sheets of rain that washed the surrounding lands, cleansing the earth, the warmth of the alcohol flooding his brains and the essence of the wormwood wrapping around his mind.

The piercing blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore rarely missed a beat, and this drizzly day was no exception. He watched from his tower window, far above the misty fog that was slowly forming over the grounds of Hogwarts, through the sheets of rain, straight into the heart of Severus Snape as he poured the second shot of absinthe through his lips. With a heavy sigh, Albus turned his wandering mind and equally wandering eyes to the heavens, nonchalantly searching for an owl.

"It seems as if all the pieces were falling into place, doesn't it?" a voice broke the thick silence behind him. With a slight nod, Dumbledore allowed them to continue. "However, I didn't expect her to make so many moves so quickly. Perhaps her feelings for him were stronger than even we suspected.."

"And what of Severus' feelings, my dear? He is a complicated man, not one to rush so hastily into such matters."

"For someone so complicated, he certainly seems to be acting like any other man, and stepping up to the plate rather adequately." The retort was more of a snap, quick and harsh. It hung in the air, and was instantly regretted. There was no reprimand from Albus; he only stretched his arm out to receive the small brown owl and the message tied tightly about its left leg.

"In due time, I am sure you will see what I have in him."

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