The paintings that depicted Jesus during his forty days in the desert were not numerous. Botticelli's fullness of clothes gave a certain festive air to the dramatic moment. On the rich ultramarine of Rerich the onyx-black, winged figure stood out as particularly menacing. He knew each detail of these paintings, could describe them so accurately that even the – obviously, genius – artists would have been surprised.
The Head of Slytherin also kept a rather curious item in the top drawer of his desk.
A roughly made wooden triptych the size of a palm.
The person who sold it to him assured him that these three pieces of wood, joined by metallic plates, possessed a power that could have been compared to that of a simple protective spell. For those who believe, of course.
From the point of view of faith, knowledge is a rather vague thing, sometimes even evil. That was why he had bitten his tongue. Snape just knew what the person depicted on each of the pieces of wood had felt...
Severus could remember - so well - all those little roughnesses and details which the attention of a particularly sharp person caught when he saw him first. A neck that was too thin in it's collar, a collar that was meant for a well-fed person. Tense, attentive eyes, eyes with so much bitterness that he could almost taste it. A white scar, whose form had become a legend.
The changes that the Gryffindor had gone through made the bitterness almost unbearable. His throat was singing even when Potter was not saying anything. Reflected in the glasses, Snape thought absent-mindedly that there was no point in trying to look away. For there was nothing more alluring than the face of a young man lit by hope.
His first temptation was exactly like the nameless authors of the book saw it – yes, of that very book, in a heavy silver cover, the one that is kept by the altar in muggle churches. Lead-hard, unchewable, burning under the hot rays of revenge, that boy was to him that tempting bit of bread, from the sight and smell of white he wanted to mewl like a hungry dog.
His body yearned for another's timid touches. It was the sort of yearning that could not be muted out by words. Severus still had no idea what had kept him from from that 'simple act of Transfiguration,' which was what he called the turning of stone into bread. Maybe it was the knowledge that starved people throw themselves at the bread, and die unable to let go of the food...
Snape was one of those people whose true calling was to teach, to be a mentor. To plant knowledge in the, at times, rather rocky soil of another's mind. There was one thing that separated him from the bigger part of other teachers – he was not sentimental. Not those treat the children well, Don't damage their psyche with attacks, give them exactly as much as they can be bothered to read before Quidditch practice sentiments.
The Slytherins knew that their Head was like that.
Even the best of his students were humiliated publicly - if he thought that this was necessary, of course. His punishments were chosen in regards with the misbehaviour, not according to what a person could do. Seeing a pile of books and a mountain of parchment on a wrongdoer's desk, no-one was surprised.
His colleagues weer indignant, but Severus saw that they could not achieve such high marks in their subjects. That his students could beat anyone in their ability to think logically and to come with their own, non-trivial, conclusions on the basis of their knowledge. This was more pleasant that a warm fireplace – it was a fire of pride, that glowed for a long time.
How can anyone explain, to those who were not intimately associated with the teaching process, this fragile balance, this mechanism of the shining toy, which moves by itself? That anxiety, that anticipation a student feels before understanding? The self-satisfied grin smile that stretches his lips as he watches him solve a problem. How can he excuse this, but by saying that it was a desire for intellectual satisfaction, which, for some reason, is considered to be less sinful than...
Severus was a person who hid - from himself – the true nature of his feelings.
His second temptation wore the Prefect badge on his lapel. Malfoy Junior was, perhaps, was his most talented student. Playing with the golden Snitch Snape did not take into account – Gryffindors were for that.
Taken up onto the top of the metaphorical Temple, almost made divine, the professor could take a step forward, let him support him. Let him see that he was in desperate need of support. Of a student, a friend, of Draco.
How did Snape manage to escape this temptation? Maybe... he was afraid, afraid of seeing the slightest hint of disappointment in those grey eyes, disappointment which would kill him.
It was the time of graduation. Of course, neither the one, nor the other made it easy for him. There were no farewell letters, no ink smudged in the most important places of the message. At dinner they approached one another silently, and Draco asked quietly when the professor could see him, and when – Harry.
The two boys, used to the fact that they had to made the way to his office together, made a sort of no-attack pact. It seemed that they protected one another in their last year, when one wanted to go ahead with yet another caper.
...He told Malfoy to come at ten, but asked Potter to turn up at midnight. This arrangement was due to the fact that after a conversation with Harry he'd be hardly up for an intellectual discussion. At least, that was what the professor thought.
By end of the second hour of their conversation, he was so exhausted, he was ready to give up. To be more precise -to agree to become a teacher-mentor-counsellor, whatever they call it. All in all, to give a huge part of his time to the young Malfoy, not getting anything in return. Only because Draco thought that the world was closing in on him, crushing him – like walls.
It wasn't as if he witnessed this for the first time. It was the usual phobia of new graduates, the syndrome of a bird whose mother was ready to push him out of the nest to make space.
Standing by the open window, through which wafted the smell of jasmine, Malfoy was ruffling his fringe in a gesture of despair. He must have borrowed it off his Gryffindor associate.
'But... you don't understand!'
'Of course...' Snape agreed, taking a sip of ruby-red liquid from his goblet.
'I will never find a teacher like you. And I.. don't want to! When you are near me, it seems that the world it simple and predictable. And if I brew the recipe right, then the properties of the potion will be exactly as described.'
Severus waited, savouring the rich taste of the drink.
'If I understood well, you want to use me like blinders on a horse. It is not going to work, Draco. I am sorry to break it to you, but the world is not predictable. I, for example, never meant to become a teacher. I was always annoyed by idiots, and yet I am teaching them for so many years now.'
'No, I just want to...' Draco's voice became a whisper, 'I just want you to be my friend. It's impossible, isn't it?'
Severus felt the bitterness of the drink in his mouth.
'If I was to ask Potter, who is eavesdropping on our conversation right now, if I was to ask him what he wanted of me, I am sure he'd give me a similar answer.'
The fussing outside the door stopped, as if proving Severus' words.
'But I am not -'
As if the Head of Slytherin had no idea of his preferences by now. Very traditional preferences, by the way.
Severus sneered.
'You want to make me your own. You, and he. The angle of the intention does not matter. Mr Malfoy, you are to me – students, for whom I bear a personal responsibility. But until the moment of your graduation. You are not to try and make that last longer. There is a time for everything, goddammit!'
'I don't want to...make you my own. I just want to see you, sometimes,' Draco was lost.
'Well, I can guarantee that. We will see each other, at least three times a year. For Christmas, Easer and your father's birthday.'
Draco's shoulders dropped.
'I understand, sir. Maybe I should... go.'
He turned clumsily, and taking a few steps towards the door, accidentally touches the Head. He did not turn around, remaining in his chair. Limp wrists hung rom the armpieces of the armchair.
Possibly, Draco was waiting for a sign of some sort. Looking for a reason to stay, - otherwise why did he stay on the threshold for so long? But he could not let himself have Malfoy, and that was why he only grimaced and emptied the goblet.
Merlin, he loved Draco – almost like his own son, and he was doing all he could for him. But if real parents don't accept their grown children the way they are, what could have been expected of him, a complete stranger?
Of course, he could not admit the real reason for his not accepting. The abilities of any mentor are, unfortunately, limited, and sooner or later there comes a time when a student has to be let loose. Otherwise – long, bitter arguments, ending in disappointment. Otherwise – snickering behind the ageing teacher's back. Because you can't answer all his questions anymore, and you do – your voice no longer has confidence. Your relationship loses its reason and you become more in need of him that he of you... No. Severus could not let that happen.
The best students have to be admired from afar, like watching them through a telescope. The brightest of the class have to be a thousand miles away from you. Otherwise their white-hot intellect burns you to ashes.
Draco, of course, had no idea how many times Snape went through his House's awards - cups and such, on most of which Draco's name was engraved. Did not see the real smile that lit Snape's face at that moment. Could not know about the heartbreaking pride that took hold of him when he saw the material proof of his student's success. Did he need to know?
The fussing outside the door resumed. Snape heard muffled voices.
If he had been Potter, he would not have dared to knock...
The Slytherin Head had been thinking of various developments of his and Harry's relationship for months. What if he made Harry his fist love? What if he patiently fussed over the happy 'hero' both in the bedroom and out of it?
But having learnt something, Harry would most definitely want to try out his new skills of seduction – on someone, on one of those boys with whom he'd played only yesterday. And old Snivellus would be left alone again.
But on the other hand... To undress him for the first time, to bask in the shyness, this all seemed to Snape rather tempting. Potter would be passionate and daring, it was obvious. He kept looking at him now in a way that made him want to leave the class. Provoking him with every gesture, his eyes, even the timbre of his voice.
He should give up. Close the door from the inside. Severus wanted it so much that he could almost feel the black hair under his fingers...
Except that the Slytherin head could not let himself have Potter.
Not matter how much he entertained himself with his delusions, it was clear – he had continue playing the part. He'd never be able to relax and be himself with that boy; the teacher in him would always want to be higher, above. Instructions, even said in a hushed whisper, remain instructions. Additional lessons with a misbehaving student would what ti would be like. The success of some idiot Hufflepuff did bring happiness, but ti was far from the insane joy of which he dreamt.
And also, Snape was simply afraid. Simply afraid. He, who had endured not one hundred Cruciatuses. Because it was not about wounds that can be healed by spells and salves. The wound which Harry could cause him was of the sort that hurt from the constant digging in them by the sharp sticks of one's own questions – how could I? Why did I let this get this far?
There was a knock on the door.
'Come in,' Snape sighed.
The heavy door opened, and the flames of the candles danced, reflected in the glasses.
'I came to say goodbye,' said Potter, not lifting his face. And leant against the wall.
Carefully combed hair, clean shirt. He was coming here like to a first date.
'Close the door,' Snape commanded.
He fumbled with his wand and said the spell. They were alone.
Snape rose from his armchair.
'Are you going to stand there? Come in.'
'No, thank you. I'd rather stand.'
The Gryffindor propped himself up against a bookshelf. His nostrils flared nervously, his eyes were half-closed. He was trying to hold himself back... Against all logic, Snape wanted to break that frail defence.
'Are you waiting for me to approach you?'
'Yes,' it came out quietly, like a sigh.
He could not bear to see Harry shake form fear and desire. Treacherous blush on his cheeks... The air around melted, like liquid glass.
Snape got up abruptly. The boy froze. Five steps that separated them were a deposit. The sixth was equal to a confession. Potter was enthralled, unable to look away. Severus bent over him, Placing a hand on the wall behind him.
'Let's say goodbye, then.'
A careful hand of the Gryffindor found its way to his head. Potter closed his eyes - and pushed.
They both had waned it so much that the fist time their teeth hit each other. And then Snape pushed him against the wall and, forgetting everything, started to kiss him, hungrily, without stopping, drunk from the sudden proximity. His kisses were not unanswered.
...Merlin, what was he doing? If they don;t stop in that very moment, then there would be no going back...
Breaking away from the teacher's mouth, Potter tried to steady his breathing. Smiling wisely and sadly, Severus moved a strand fo hair off his forehead. Silently removed the Gryffindor's hand from his shoulders.
At first Harry didn't understand it, tried to pull him closer... But then saw his face and moved away. The heavy silence was almost solid, like an old potion. Both tried to breath evenly. Both failed.
'That's it?' Harry asked expressionlessly, looking somewhere to the side.
'You were waiting for another ending to our... conversation?'
Potter did not answer at first. It was obvious that it was hard for him to not do what was natural, not to say something witty. Sane felt something like respect.
'I... Anyway. Tell me, Professor, why do you always have to be alone? It's so difficult.'
Snape must have looked angry, because Harry looked afraid.
'You clearly imagine yourself not only as the saviour of the wizarding world, but also as my saviour. You want to dissipate the darkness of my loneliness by your light-bringing presence. Right, Mr Potter?'
He shook his head, but Severus did not let him say anything.
'You now what I will tell you? Sometimes loneliness – the sate that is better then the existence of two people who are alien to one another.'
Harry's facial expression made it clear that grief was strangling him. The boy seemed not to be listening to him...
After a lengthy silence, he managed to say -
'Thank you for the lesson, professor. I will not forget it.'
Something ached in Snape's chest. Potter turned around, said the unlocking spell... He still could stop him, call to him. But instead of that were Harry's hunched shoulders the creak of the closing door and the silence.
His third temptation had four towers, on which were the four flags of the four Houses. From the vantage point, a view of an endless sea of pines opened up, running right up to the horizon.
How many times had he stood here, his chest pressed against the time-worn stone. Dreaming of the time when he'd be able to leave this hated school. No longer see the lying, fake faces with deceiving blue eyes. Swearing himself to the himself that if he ever ended up on the over side of the table, he'd have behaved differently.
His dreams have come true.
Two weeks ago the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, had called all the Potions Professor, Severus Snape, to his office for a private conversation and offered him the place of his Deputy. In reality, it meant that he'd leave his post and give Snape all the responsibilities of the headmaster. The old man would have to give his consent for all of Snape's actions, so that there would be no troubles with the Ministry. Dumbledore himself would 'retire' – meaning he would move to the Headquarters of the Order, and would dedicate all of himself to fighting You-Know-Who.
Although for it al to succeed, they needed willing helpers. For example, someone like the young Mr Potter, who had, in all these years, proved himself as able. All that Snape had to do was not hold Potter up in the castle for longer than it was necessary. Their relationship should not get in the way of protecting all the wizarding world.
So Severus took the post, getting something in return. An ancient castle, seeped in magic, and the power over the young minds in addition.
Opening the triptych, you would firstly look at the middle part. When Snape looked at it, the picture almost changed; white clothes turned to a black cloak with a high collar, and the black devil on the right seemed to have a white beard. There was almost the glimmer of glasses...
From the top of the tower, he could see the moving ribbons on the Quidditch posts.
Well, the temptation of power he could not resist. He was a human being, after all – not the Son of God.
And in those evening when his favourite, a girl in a crimson-and-black tie sat on his armchair, checking her list of ingredients with the book, he thought that he had made the right choice. After all, to each his own...