Severus jerked awake, rubbing a hand over his face in agitation, and growled angrily in the dark.
His imagination was so hopelessly overactive these days... The bizarre pomegranate-juice scenario from the night before was still so vivid, and it seemed he was not destined to a decent night's sleep this evening, either. Oh, troubling dreams were not new to him... He had taken to secreting away a cache of sleeping potion to chase away the nightmares.
But these new dreams were far from nightmares, and they seemed to be centered around a certain tall, elegant colleague of his.
Growling again to make himself feel better, he beat the pillow into submission and closed his eyes decisively.
Just as his breathing had become shallow once more in sleep...
"I'm considering how profitable it would be to just give you the bottle. Tell me, Ms. Trefethen, what's in it for me if I do?"
"God damn it!"
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle…
Along one of the walls of the tiny, cluttered sitting room resided a fainting couch- oh, it wasn't much, just a pretty little piece that came with the chairs and happened to be long enough for one Sabine Trefethen to stretch out on when her own bed proved too warm for comfort.
So it was that Sabine protracted along this sofa, her left forearm crossed over her forehead and her other arm diagonal across her body. A low moan escaped her thin, relaxed lips, for she was deep in slumber, and her shoulders tensed and rolled as some slurred French mumbling resonated through the room.
"Ah, Professeur, vous le prendrez de moi maintenant?"
Meanwhile, just above the couch was a mirror with a gilded frame; instead of a reflection of the room, however, it showed a chamber with hardwood floors, a black canopy bed and two middle-aged witches, one fair and blonde and the other flushed and freckled as the latter pressed her hands against the glass and looked downward.
"Tarla... I think she's having the pomegranate dream again."