Chapter Nine

The dark circles under his eyes hadn't lessened over time, nor had the sting from his acidic words and often-callous choice of phrasing. But she still felt a flutter in her stomach when he chanced to meet her eyes, and she hated herself each day for it. More and more she found herself attracted to a man that she knew she shouldn't be, and she couldn't stop herself either. If there was ever a potion to brew that wouldn't have severe repercussions in the aftermath, but would still stop her heart from calling out to his, she would gladly down it in a heartbeat-preferably during the heartbeats that skipped whenever he said her name. She had seen the mark on his forearm, despite his best attempts to act as if was nothing, and she knew what it meant. She may have been an American, but she wasn't a moron. Everyone feared the Dark Lord; she was no exception.

The mark was getting darker with each passing day.

She couldn't quite place when the change had come over him, when he had aligned himself with the other side, when he had stopped sleeping, when his smiles had become even more forced, but she was attune enough to his emotions to realize that she couldn't keep coming into the tea shoppe on his breaks anymore. Not to mention the fact that she had to start distancing herself from him because her class would be returning to the States in only a few days. The summer session wasn't meant to be longer than two months, and while in that time she had come to respect and understand this boy, she knew that anything beyond friendship was going to be next to impossible, considering the fact that they would separated by a large ocean and several thousand miles.

The debate for her final visit had left her in a tangle of emotions; when should she meet with him? How could she tell him how she felt without ruining any future chance for a deep friendship? What would she tell him, more importantly, if he rejected her hopes and dreams for nothing more than just 'good-bye'?

As she paced the small apartment space she and Mauve had paid through the nose to rent out for the two month stay in London, she found herself stacking all the random scrolls and books they had scattered about in the short time they had been here; pocketing pens and charcoal sticks, spoons and forks, while collecting the dirty dishes from breakfast. Their flat had become a rather homey gathering place for their fellow students and a few other locals they had made the acquaintance of; each night left them with several bodies draped over the couch or chairs, and a few more curled on the floor, while they climbed into their shared loft and slept deeply, only to feed a hungry army in the morning. She had to admit that she was becoming a rather accomplished cook-why, they had dined on the finest blackberry pancakes and poached eggs. Though her hollandaise sauce still left something to be desired, she was sure she'd get the knack of it eventually.

Scrubbing the pots and pans feverishly, she tried to test out her words aloud, grateful the apartment was empty for once, "Severus, Sevvy, Sev-darling, we gotta talk," shaking her head, she tried to concentrate, "Don't sound like a dolt, June, just stay calm," she muttered, as she attacked a particularly tough bit of egg that had crusted to her best pan, "Stupid egg!"

"Did I miss breakfast already?" the lilting accent paled her complexion, as she peeked over her shoulder. He was here, at the apartment, standing in their doorway, sunshine framing him from the side as light sent patches of gold from the windows to the scuffed hardwood floors. Nodding her head, she set the pan back into the sudsy water and wiped her hands on a moist towel.

"Eggs benedict with blackberry pancakes," she found a clean cup and poured a now cold cup of black tea, "Tea?"

"Thank you," as his long legs brought him closer to her, she felt her heart hammering fiercely.

"It's cold," she warned, but with a flick of the wrist, his wand touched the mug and in seconds, steam was encircling his beak nose, "Why didn't you come over last night? We were having an early farewell bash." He sent an appraising look about the room, eyes resting on the overturned bong by the couch, and the random assortment of clothing that was thrown haphazardly about, still unable to conceal the multitude of shot glasses and empty bottles.

"I can see. Looks like it was a lot of fun, too, but I had work to attend to," he sipped slowly, "Mm, nice. Tastes like a blend of peppermint and black tea-Oolong?" she allowed a bit of a grin to spread.

"Yeah, I thought it would be a nice change; you like it?"

"It's perfect," she felt herself glow at his praise.

"Thank you. Um, why don't you have a seat while I straighten things up," he glanced about again.

"Let me help you-"

"No, no, no, you just got here. Relax, I can handle it. It's only a few clothes and glasses. Sit-SIT!" she commanded, and he hurriedly found a chair with only a few questionably bits of party left on it.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" he sounded nonchalant, but a deep scarlet blush still flamed her cheeks.

"Oh, you heard that, huh?" he chuckled.

"Just a bit, I'm sure you were in full conversation before I got here, weren't you?"

"I was not!" she defended hotly, searching for the cap to the bottle of Jack that had been drained last night, "I was cleaning, thank you." His brows shot to his hairline.

"It was worse than this before I got here?!" his tone incredulous as she nodded solemnly.

"I had just enough time to stash the bodies," a pause hung between them, a dark look flitting across his features, before raucous laughter broke the moment.

"Funny, hunny, funny," she felt her spine relax and her belly loosen at his laughter. Something had run through his brain, though what, she didn't know. Surely he would know her well enough by now to know a joke when he heard it, she reasoned, he was probably just tired from work. But a thought niggled in the back of her mind.

"Doesn't the shoppe close at midnight on Fridays?" she questioned, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah, but, uh, we had to do inventory, and, well, you know how that is," she nodded, though a part of her said he was lying.

"Well, just so you know, it never matters what time you come over-you're always welcome in our home."

"That reminds me-when do you two head back to the States?" her stomach clenched. It was now or never, she supposed; after all, the opportunity had just presented itself.

"On Wednesday," her voice was soft, as she began to wipe down the coffee table with a rag.

"Oh." He sipped the dregs of his tea, setting the mug into the sink before beginning helping her fold the shirts and pants left behind.

"Yeah, but we may come back, who knows? I mean, a year in London, that would be great. If we could get jobs and afford it, that is, though I doubt my parents will be thrilled with the idea," she tried to stop her hands from shaking as she piled the bundle by the door under a side table.

"I know I'd love to keep you two around for another year; things will be a lot more quiet without you guys wreaking havoc on all of England," she laughed, meeting his dark brown eyes with her own. His face was serious, and she felt time stop around them.

"You'd like for us to stay, huh?" there was only the thump-thump-thump of her heart; he must be able to hear it. Stepping closer, he nodded.

"Yeah, I'd like that, very much," she could smell him, the scents of tea with chemicals, plants, exotic herbs.

"Severus, there's something I gotta tell you, but, uh, well, um-"her voice faltered as he stepped even closer.

"Is there?" their noses were practically touching now. She licked her lips nervously, steadying her thoughts.

"Uh-huh," but his palm was cupping her cheek, so warm and so cold all at once. She felt the sigh come from her chest, and inhaled deeply, "I just wanna say that, um, you really mean a lot to me-"

"You mean a lot to me, too," his voice was a whisper, his eyes half-lidded, so dark, so brown, so deep; she felt as if she were falling into a chasm.

"Really?"

"Really," And when their lips met, she didn't care that she was still in her pajamas, or that her hair was a mess, or that the apartment needed to be swept. All that mattered was how wonderful his lips felt against her own, how delicious he tasted, how amazing it felt to have his arms wrapped around her middle, his hand pulling her into him, firm against her back. When they broke apart, his breath was ragged.

"Don't go, Juniper," was all he said before she found herself pressed against his mouth again, her hands clasping his neck. And she realized then that no matter what she was supposed to do, she couldn't leave him.

In the circular room where so many times before he had found solitude, a lone man now sat, racked with guilt and haunted by the pain of memories long past. Resting over the roaring fire was the same faded, dusty painting that had always been there, but for some reason, on this night, he felt as if it were the first time he had seen it completed, and the rawness of that wound was so fresh, so new. Rubbing his arm absentmindedly, he realized that, for the once, he wasn't rubbing the arm that bore the mark of the Dark Lord, but the arm that bore a scar he had hidden from all sight since the night it had been created.

Gingerly lifting the sleeve, he began to roll it, past his white wrist, past his sallow forearm, until he could see it in its entirety. The skin was raised and purpled with the cold of the season; not even the fire seemed to warm it into submission. Its length ran from elbow joint to mid-arm and its width that of his arm. He traced the letters and symbols with one finger, recalling the events that had befallen himself and the two greatest loves he had ever shared. Disgust sent bile into the back of his throat as the visions of what had happened on his desk with Willow ran through behind the others.

What had he been thinking?

With a groan, he rose from his chair and drew from the haversack he had brought along a fresh bottle of his own brew of absinthe. He still was pissed beyond belief that someone had filched his sacred glass and bottle, but this would do for now.

He didn't even bother with the sugar cubes, preferring to down the bitter brew as it was; swilling from the bottle in a way he had seen one other man do, so many, many, many years ago. It burned his throat, and he relished in the pain.

: This, this pain, this was real. :

Stalking about the room with the bottle clutched in his fist, he felt the presence of someone else nearby, but didn't care. With another deep gulp, he set the bottle on a bookshelf, drawing down a sketchbook and a journal. Flinging them to the floor without bothering to open their yellowed pages, he grabbed another handful and tossed them as well. Clearing the entire shelf, he brushed the dust reverently from the space, before prying the back of the wooden shelf open. Revealing the cold womb of a secret hole in the brick wall, he reached inside and drew out a tin box, whose lock had rusted over time. He held it carefully, overturning it in his large palms. It held the truth about him, about them, about their life, about their past, about his past, all in this tiny tin.

Hurling it across the room, he didn't even watch as it smashed against the stone wall with a loud clang, the lock popping off at a strange angle. Landing with a dull thud on the floor, its lid flipped open, spilling the contents onto the carpet.

"Take it-after all, that's what you really came for, isn't it?" he spoke to the empty space in the room, to the invisible person who watched him quietly, "it holds all the answers you seek, so take it, and get out of my chambers before I remove you personally." The growl his tone had reached was a dangerous one. Unseen hands scooped the contents back into the safety of their prison and then disappeared from the tower, without a word.

"Here, have a cup of cocoa," Maeve's slender hand was clutching a warm mug that smelled awfully enticing. With a grateful smile, a young boy took a sip, eyes puffy and bloodshot.

"Thanks, Professor Ulster."

"Please, Harry, we're not in class; call me Maeve," perching on the arm of a nearby chair, she smoothed back her hair, twirling a strand around her fing, "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" Harry was silent, the moments stretching awkwardly as he stared into the light brown beverage's depths.

"It's alright, Harry. Whatever we talk about here, stays between you and me," she placed her hand comfortingly on his arm, and the stiff smile he offered up at her melted the young woman's heart. He was so young, and seemed to so innocent, until she looked into his eyes, and then ... the weight of a thousand years were reflected back. She felt that they were kindred spirits in those moments, her own wounded soul reaching out to his.

"You sound like a muggle therapist," he commented dryly, causing a ripple of laughter to be shared.

"Yeah, well, I have a lot of experience with those, trust me," taking up her cup, she drank deeply, "Yum, chocolate."

"I, well, I'm having some problems, Professor Ulster. And I want to talk to Dumbledore-but, he seems to be avoiding me this year, and I don't really trust Professor Solaris, plus I can't get in touch with Si-um, someone very important to me, and all Hermione and Ron suggest is Dumbledore, so, well, you seemed like the next logical person to come to," the words rushed out of his mouth so fast, that Maeve would have had a hard time understanding him if she weren't used to the multitude of British accents that abounded in Hogwarts.

"Wow, what a mouthful-you've been holding that in for awhile now, haven't you?" Harry nodded, staring at his mug again, "Well, let's start from the beginning. How was your summer, Harry? Did you start having these problems then, or after you arrived back here at Hogwarts?" With a deep sigh, he shook his head.

"It started this summer, with my cousin, Dudley Dursley ..." and so Harry told the quiet, observant professor of his daring escape from the dementors this summer, followed by the terrifying trial before the Ministry of Magic in one of the chambers reserved normally for the likes of crimes committed by Death Eaters. He gave her incredibly detailed accounts of the dreams he had been having, the frightening visions that had plagued him, his wretched experience at St. Mungo's with Gilderoy Lockheart and the revelation Neville Longbottom had made about his parents to Hermione and Ron, not to mention the sudden appearance of the Thestrals pulling the school carriages. When his throat was dry and the candles had sunk low into their wax, Maeve placed a warm blanket over the exhausted young boy, as the flames in the fireplace dimmed to glowing embers and logs.

"Damn, Harry-you just can't seem to win, can you?" he gave her a wan smile.

"Well, there is a silver lining this year, but even that—"he yawned widely, "Even that isn't something I can tell anyone ..." Meave refilled his mug with a wave of her wand, the cocoa now topped off with marshmallows.

"Miniature Marshmallows?" she asked.

"Not my silver lining, but those are definitely a nice surprise," he sipped it, his eyelids drooping closed, feet propped on a footstool, "No, my silver lining is ... Luna Lovegood." Meave held back her shock, instead offering him a full pillow.

"I know this is unorthodox, Harry, but would you care to spend the night on my-er, our couch? I wouldn't want you to get a crick in your neck with that chair, and its past student curfew, so ..." but Harry Potter was already fast asleep, leaving Maeve to reflect on what she had learned tonight, her head swimming with every word. With a flick of the wrist, she levitated the teenager onto her couch, fluffing the pillow before placing it under his thick, black hair.

His young face was attractive in the dim light, jaw strong and square, normally drawn together thick brows resting over those intense green eyes, cheekbones sculpted and lips not too full nor too thin. Though his shoulders were broad and his frame tall, he was still scrawny from too many years of malnourishment at the hands of his aunt and uncle. In time, though, he would fill out to be a handsome young man--very similar to his father and someone else whom she cared for more deeply than even Juniper knew. Smoothing the ruffled hair gently, she felt the arrival of her friend and lover before she even spoke a word.

"So, he confessed his whole summer and autumn experiences to you tonight, huh?" Maeve nodded, gathering his and her mugs quietly, "I'm beat; we should rest tonight. But I've got a lot to talk about with you tomorrow, and we have a date to keep this weekend, alright?" Watching Juniper undress from the mirror of their shared vanity, the darker of the two touched something hidden in her pocket, a faraway look passing through her hazel eyes.

"Yes, we have a lot to discuss," hanging her cloak over the same chair Harry had occupied all night, she turned to take one last look at the boy who lived, before curling under the heavy comforter and warmed sheets of their oversized bed, drifting off into a restless sleep when dawn was just breaking on the horizon.

"Ron, Ron-are you awake? RON!"

"Mmph-no, I don't want to eat the cricket ball, it tasted funny last time ..." the redhead mumbled into his pillow, rolling over. With an exuberant shake of the shoulder, the voice attacked him once more.

"Wake up, you oaf and listen to me; this is important!"

"Nosisnot; my teeth are sore ..."

"RON! GET UP!" with a swift kick, he fell to the floor with a resounding thud.

"What in the—Hermione! What are you doing in here? You're not supposed to be in here ... again ..." he protested, rubbing his head where it had thumped against his nightstand. The bushy haired girl who had plagued him and Harry their first year of Hogwarts and had become their best friend by the beginning of the second year was still in her pajamas, and clutching something small and rusty looking in her hands, "What is that?"

"Get dressed; I have a LOT to tell you, and where is Harry?" the two looked about the room, Ron even more puzzled than Hermione.

"I don't know, I mean, he never came back from dinner last night, but I assumed he was in the Common Room doing homework, wasn't he?" Hermione shook her head vehemently.

"Nope, didn't see him there at all, and I didn't leave until really late," she had something draped over her arm, and it took Ron a few moments to register that he had seen the thing before.

"Hey! What are you doing with Harry's invisibility cloak?" Hermione rolled her eyes, before waltzing out.

"Get dressed and I'll tell you everything-now hurry up!" with a grimace, Ron rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Bloody shrew, that's what she is, waking me up at the crack of dawn with her confounded detective work-this had better be good, or I'll-I'll-I'll send Snape her way, that's what I'll do, and see how she likes being harassed after a long day of hard work ..." and still grumbling menacingly, the befuddled redhead pulled on his sweater inside out and spent twenty minutes trying to find the fly on his jeans that were pulled up backwards before he was even able to attempt meeting her for breakfast.

"What's this all about, Hermione?" a very grumpy Ron slunk into his seat beside her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Light brown eyes darting around the hall nervously, Hermione slipped him a sheet of parchment where her neat handwriting was hardly visible.

We may be being watched; we need to find someplace secret and safe to meet in order to discuss the 'trinkets' I've acquired over the past few months.

Eyes quizzical, Ron handed crumpled the paper into a ball, "Alright, follow me after breakfast. I think I know someplace." Nodding to herself in a pleased way, with a grim look of determination, Hermione sipped daintily at her pumpkin juice.

"Excellent-wait, where is Harry?" Craning his neck around the room, Ron's brow furrowed.

"Did he say if he was going to meet up with Cho or something yesterday?" Snorting derisively, Hermione pointed to the Ravenclaw table.

"Not likely since Cho is at breakfast and looks rather cheerful, for her lately, anyway," sure enough, Cho Chang sat amongst a protective circle of female friends, her normally tear streaked cheeks dry, and what may have been a faint smile lighting her pretty Asian features.

"Then where could he have gotten to?" Hermione's eyes narrowed suddenly, her watchful expression on the Slytherin table across the hall.

"I don't know, but what is Draco up to, Ron?" Draco Malfoy's shiny blonde hair and pointed nose were attuned to one of the Americans who had been sorted into Gryffindor, a Sarah Addams, who was giggling as he smiled and spoke with her.

"It looks like he's flirting!" Ron sounded aghast and Hermione felt slightly ill.

"Oh lord, that poor girl—someone's got to warn her before its too late!" but as the two stood and ambled from the dining students together, Ron groaned.

"It's already too late," chugging the last of her juice beside Ron, Hermione stood in a decisive way.

"Then we have to hurry, before anything else weird happens-though it can't be much worse than that. Come on, Ron," bewildered, Ron glanced at his plate.

"But I've still got sausages and toast-"

"Come on, Ron," with a heavy sigh, he grabbed both in his hands, stuffing another in his mouth as he followed her from the Great Hall.

"Couldn't this have waited until after we finished eating?"

"I've suddenly lost my appetite," she replied curtly, pausing a moment at the staircase, "Take me, Ron."

"Huh?" jaw open in confusion, he stared at her.

"To where you think its safe to talk, idiot," she reminded him.

"Ohhhh, right, that. Er, follow me," with one final check as they turned a corner, Hermione felt in her pack to make sure the treasures were safe, before following him to somewhere she could only pray was secret to everyone save themselves.

"This had better be good," he warned.

"Oh, trust me, Ron, it's something, though I don't know if good is how I'd describe it ..." Ron felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and suddenly wondered if maybe he didn't want to know what Hermione had discovered this year.