25. We Need to Talk About Callie

She sighed to herself before knocking on Snape's door. Whatever this is about, I hope it's quick, she thought. All she wanted to do was go back to her bed, pull the curtains closed, and try to ignore her roommates' mindless chatter.

The man called her in and told her to shut the door. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a chair set up before his desk. She did as he said, waiting for him to speak, but he seemed oddly hesitant.

"Professor Dumbledore," he finally began, "has asked me - as your head of house - to speak with you regarding your... behavior as of late."

"Have I done anything wrong, sir?" Callie asked.

"No," he replied. "Not in the technical sense."

She waited for him to explain, and when he stayed silent, she prodded, "Sir?"

She'd never seen him look so uncomfortable. He couldn't even seem to sit still, as he rose from his seat at the desk and paced behind it instead, not meeting her eye.

Eventually, he said, "I'm not going to ask how you're doing. I already know the answer to that."

"Oh," Callie breathed, understanding. "So this is about my-" she paused "-situation?"

Again, he hesitated, then said, "There's a spiritual and emotional counselor on staff at Hogwarts. Madam Rochester."

Cocking a brow, Callie said. "You want me to go see a headshrinker, that's what this is about?" She chuckled humorlessly to herself, shaking her head. "Well, I thank you for the recommendation, Professor," she said sarcastically, "but counselors are supposed to help people understand their problems, and fix them. I understand everything perfectly, sir." She paused, before adding bitterly, "And unfortunately, there's no fixing this one."

She stood up and made to leave, but he called out, "Sit down, Warbeck, I haven't dismissed you."

She stood in place for a moment, but then reluctantly followed his order and waited for him to say whatever it was he had to say.

He returned to his seat behind the desk and studied her a minute, before he said, "Christ, how you love to wallow in your own self-pity." In a disgusted sort of way, he added, "It's pathetic."

"That's not what I'm doing," she argued.

"Isn't it? Moping around like a zombie, wasting away in the dormitory all day long."

"I'm not moping, I-" she paused "-I just want to be left alone."

"And why, may I ask, is that? Has it really been so awful for you, everyone treating you with kid gloves?"

She wanted to protest, but couldn't deny that was exactly what everyone had been doing. And she hated it.

He went on, "Doesn't seem to have done any good anyway."

Sighing, she replied, "No, sir, it hasn't."

"Then we're in agreement," he said. "No sense in coddling you anymore."

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Right, when have you ever coddled me?"

"I've let a few things slide since your return to the castle. But no more. For one thing, you're going to be dining in the Great Hall with your classmates from now on. No more hiding out amongst the house-elves in the kitchens."

She began to argue, "Professor Sprout said I-"

But he cut her off. "I don't care what Professor Spout said, she's not your head of house. I am. And as long as that's the case, you'll do as I say. Is that clear?"

She sighed, shaking her head to herself, and said, "Whatever."

"What happened to 'yes, sir'?"

She glared at him, keeping her mouth shut. Just as he'd always wanted.

He let it go and continued with his new rules for her. "Now," he said, "you will join the rest of the school in the Great Hall at breakfast, and you're not to return to the common room until after dinner."

"Why?" Callie asked.

"Because you've been living like a hermit shut up in isolation the last two months. Rather selfish of you, considering your precious Gryffindor chums are simply tied up in knots over your well-being." He paused. "Sorry sods actually seem to miss having the pleasure of your company, God help them. Longbottom, these days, looks even more like a lost puppy than is usual for him."

Callie scoffed. "Since when do you give a damn about Longbottom?" she asked, scowling at him.

"Oh, I don't. Though I do miss the days of you holding his hand through every assignment. Prevented a fair amount of disasters, you did. The boy has once again proven himself an incompetent menace without you. Ought to get back to those little tutoring sessions of yours."

Smirking derisively, Callie said, "If you want me to teach your class for you, Professor, you're going to have to hand over a cut of your salary."

He stared at her, and she expected a rebuke, but instead his lip curled into a small grin. "There's that biting wit I've grown so accustomed to," he said. "I was starting to think you'd lost your edge. There was a time when I couldn't say two words in your presence without receiving sass."

"Guess I just don't care enough to sass you anymore, Professor," she said. "Congratulations, I've finally leaned how to shut up."

"Hmph," he breathed. "That or Madam Pomfrey's sleeping draught has dulled that sharp tongue of yours."

She dropped her gaze from his.

"I want it on my desk in the morning," he said. "You're done with that."

"Why?"

"You're becoming dependent on it."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are," he insisted, rising up to his feet. "You already have, and now you've moved onto something a bit stronger, it seems." She eyed him questioningly, and he explained, "I can smell the liquor on your breath."

She glared at him, kicking herself for having gotten caught, but still with a defiant expression on her face.

"Give it to me," he demanded, holding his hand out for the bottle. She hesitated, but pulled it from her robes and set it on the desk.

How did he know? she wondered.

Holding up the Ogden's Old, he said, "Another distraction, is that it?"

"One of the house-elves gave it to me," she said. "Just wanted to try it."

"This is what you call trying?" The twelve ounce bottle was almost entirely full. "Christ, Warbeck, look what you've become!" he yelled out in exasperation. "You used to have some fire in your veins, but now you're just a sorry sack of misery. Never thought you of all people would turn out to be so maddeningly weak."

"Well, surprise!" she said, jumping to her feet, "I'm human, unlike some people." Pacing the room, she added, "Sorry to disappoint you, Professor, but I think I'm allowed to be a little despondent when my father just-" and then she cut herself off as quickly as if he'd Tongue-Tied her again.

He waited for her to go on. When she didn't, he prodded, "What?"

"N- Nothing. Never mind."

He stared at her a moment, though she wouldn't meet his eye. Then he stalked across the room and came to stand before her. In his low, silky voice he said, "You haven't cried once."

She gaped at him. No, she hadn't let a single tear fall since the day she'd found out about... it. But how in the hell could he possibly have known that?

It all made sense when he said, "I'm a Legilimens. That's how I know."

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide, as the feeling of having been violated came over her.

"You BASTARD!" she screamed, shoving him away from her. The consequences of putting her hands on a teacher in anger were far from her mind. "You've been digging around in my head this whole time, haven't you?!"

"Didn't have to strain myself to do it," he said. "As much as you try to repress your emotions, you're about as easy to read as a grade one spell book!" He paused, before continuing, "But you've been hiding from yourself as well as everyone else since the day you got back to this castle. Face the fact, Warbeck, your father is dead!"

Hearing him spit that out at her left her stunned and breathless, as though she had been punched in the gut.

"Let it in, already! Accept it," he went on. "I know why you're failing history too, even though you've kept up in everything else. You can't even open that God damn notebook because it's full of his handwriting."

Bloody hell, what else did he know about her? What else had he seen while picking around at her brain as if it were his own personal library? "You-" she began, pausing and shaking her head at his audacity. "You stay out of my head, you... you..." There wasn't a strong enough word to describe her contempt for the man.

"Dumbledore told me to keep an eye on you," he explained. "So to speak. In any event, it only confirmed what I already knew."

"You know nothing about me," Callie countered.

"I know a lot more than you think," he replied. "Hell, I used to be you."

"Oh, what are you on about?"

There was that hesitance again. He looked as though he didn't want to explain himself, and as the silence between them stretched on, she was sure he wasn't going to. Once again she scoffed and turned to leave, but halted when he said, "My mother died when I was sixteen."

She froze in place. That was... not what she'd have expected to hear. Turning back to face him, she noted that he looked just as unhappy and uncomfortable to think of his mother as she was to think of her dad. The word hypocrite flashed bitterly somewhere in the back of her mind.

But she listened as he explained calmly, "I had just started my sixth year. Dumbledore called me to his office and told me." He paused, then said, "Dragon pox. Came on quickly, unexpected. I was caught up in my own inane teenage rubbish one minute. The next everything had come crashing down."

He fell silent, and after a moment, Callie folded her arms and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm sorry." Despite her hatred of the man, she wasn't heartless.

He stood before his desk and leaned against it. "I do know about you, Callie. Not from Legilimency - that was only details, like the notebook or the categorizing of plants when your thoughts drift to him." He paused. "I had little tricks like that, myself. Anything to keep my mind off it. Buried myself in my studies, kept to myself for the most part. Even nicked a few bottles of bourbon from home." He paused. "Sound familiar?"

Taking all that in, she asked, "How did you deal with it?"

"I didn't," he said. "I avoided it, just like you're trying to do." After a moment, he asked, "Tell me, Warbeck... do you want to end up like me?"

She couldn't hold his gaze. Ever since day one she'd known him as a bitter, contemptuous old bastard who got some sort of sick pleasure out of tormenting students and everyone else. But for the first time, she also noted something sort of... sad about him.

"Stop holding back," he went on. "Otherwise it's all going to build up and build up and then you won't know what to do with it. I can promise you now, this won't be your last experience with death. And if you don't learn how to properly deal with the matter, it's going to destroy you."

She couldn't deny that on some level, she knew he was right. All of the effort it took to keep her emotions at bay was like a dam holding back a strong current, ready to break any minute. It was exhausting, and it had been getting harder and harder to shove away all the pain and the intrusive thoughts about her father. How she was never going to see him again. Not in this life, anyway.

"I-" she began, stammering, "I don't know how to get over it."

"You never get over it," he said. "You only learn how to move with it. Like a weight you have to carry around with you. At first it's almost impossible, it slows you down, you've got to struggle to keep moving. But after a while you become accustomed to it. The weight is still there, but..." he shook his head slightly "...it's not quite as heavy as it once was."

Callie remembered the headmaster's words to her on the night she'd returned from home. "'This too shall pass,'" she whispered.

"Dumbledore?" Snape guessed.

"Yes," she replied, nodding.

They were both quiet for a moment, before he said, "Say it."

"What?" she asked.

Approaching her, he explained, "Let it in. Face the fact." She didn't respond, and he said, "Your father is dead."

Again, no response. She remained stone-faced.

"Say it," he repeated. "Your father's dead."

She hesitated, jaw set and eyes fixed on some random spot in the distance. "No," she repeated.

"Say it."

"No."

"Your father's dead."

"Stop!"

"Say it."

"NO!"

He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. "Your father's dead, say it! Say it!"

Slapping his hands off her, she yelled, "My father's dead, all right!"

The dam broke.

"My father's dead!" She threw her hands up to her face, which was already soaked with the tears she'd held back for two months. Bawling hysterically, she felt her hands tremble and her knees buckle, and she would've fallen to the ground if the potions master hadn't caught her.

"My daddy's dead!" she wailed, still covering her face. And the next thing she knew, he was pulling her against him, holding her tight in his arms, as if he didn't absolutely loathe her. As if he actually had some sliver of compassion. But as surprising and out of character as it was for him to show any kind of sympathy, much less such a physical gesture, she was so consumed by her sudden attack of grief that she didn't care to question it. "God damn it," she cried. "He's gone." She wrapped her own arms around his neck and sobbed.

He didn't say anything, offered no words of consolation or support. His embrace was stiff and somewhat awkward, and it was clear that he didn't know how to be comforting. But he held her and allowed her to literally cry on his shoulder. How much time had passed, she didn't know. Ten minutes, twenty? But for just this one instance, all the hatred and hostility between them was put on hold. She wasn't the back-talking brat that got so deep under his skin, and he wasn't the cruel, cold-hearted son of a bitch that made her life miserable. Instead, she was a fourteen-year-old child who'd just lost her father, and he was the only person who could understand the hell she was going through.

Eventually, her cries began to quell, and she muttered, "I want him back."

Sighing softy to himself, he replied, "I know."

"This is too much."

"It is. But it won't always be this heavy."

When she finally pulled away from him, her face was a puffy wet mess. He brushed a tear from her cheek and said, "You really do look skeletal," running his thumb along her prominent cheekbone. "Have you actually been eating in the kitchens or just hiding?"

"No, I've been eating the same," she explained, sniffling. "It's the running. Every day, I do three laps around the lake."

"With Krum," he said in acknowledgement. "I've seen the two of you together." After a pause, he asked, "How did that come to be?"

"I don't know," Callie said. "I guess..." she shrugged "...he doesn't say a whole lot."

It suddenly occurred to her why she couldn't stand to be around anyone. Krum, if he even knew why she was Hermione's "sad" friend, didn't ask questions, didn't look at her with pity, didn't feel the need to say I'm sorry or How are you? every time he saw her. To him, she wasn't the girl who's father had just died - which was who she'd become to everyone else. Every concerned look or condolence had just been another reminder that he was gone. A reality check.

Snape conjured a handkerchief and handed it to her so she could dry her face. Then he moved behind his desk, pulled two glasses out of a drawer and grabbed up the Ogden's Old. "One isn't going to kill us," he said, pouring a shot and sliding it over to her. "Sip it." He poured his own glass and the two sat and drank, almost as if they were old friends instead of student and teacher.

After a few minutes of silence, Callie asked, "Did you know my dad?"

"No," Snape replied. "When did he graduate?"

"'70."

"I didn't start until '71. I've seen a picture of him though. You look like him."

"You think so?" she asked. She looked like her mum. Nobody thought that she looked like her dad.

"Not the features so much as the... intensity of your expressions." After a pause, he added, "I imagine he was a real bulldog. Had to be, considering he raised you."

Callie smirked. "He could be, sometimes. Then other times he was a teddy bear." Smiling to herself, she explained, "My mum, she's a doctor. Having such a busy schedule, she always worried about neglecting me when I was young. So every night she insisted on reading me a muggle fairytale before bed - even if she was at work and had to do it over the phone." She sipped her whisky before going on.

"My dad, not to be outdone, made it a point to follow that every night with something from Beedle the Bard." She chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Like it was a contest or something."

She suddenly realized that this was the first time she'd smiled in months. Catching herself, she closed her mouth. But then she told herself, He made you happy, you can smile about that. And for once, trying to be sad felt like more of an effort than trying to be happy.

Sometimes it helps to imagine them joking and laughing, Lupin had told her regarding her worst fear of having her parents die. Bloody hell, she was living that now.

"My mum used to read me Beedle's stories too," Snape said. "One of the few happy memories I have from childhood."

There was that sadness about him again. Though he'd always come off as more of a two-dimensional cartoon villain than an actual human being, there was a whole history to the man, of which she knew nothing. However, now was not the time to ask.

Smirking, she said, "It's hard to image you as a little boy."

"What, did you think I was born a thirty-five-year-old?"

Cocking a brow, she asked, "You're only thirty-five?"

"Hmph," he scoffed, shaking his head as he sipped from his glass. To himself, he added, "Absolutely vicious, she is."

Another silence passed before he spoke again. "I meant what I said about that sleeping draught. I'll give you one more night and that's it. Tomorrow, you either bring it back to Madam Pomfrey or give it to me."

Callie considered the now-empty potion bottle she'd tossed in her trunk the previous night. Then she reached into her robes, pulled out the unopened one she'd acquired that afternoon, and set it on the desk. Snape eyed the bottle, then turned his gaze on her.

"Swiped it from the hospital wing before dinner," she explained softly, but unabashedly. "Other one's gone."

He looked as though he were considering whether or not to reprimand her. Then he stashed the bottle in a drawer, saying, "Take the day off tomorrow. I don't expect you'll be getting much sleep."

"No, sir," she agreed.

"I still want to see you at dinner. I'll have a house-elf bring you something midday. Something substantial - I could feel your spine through your robes." He paused, and then added. "No more running."

"Yes, sir." She stood and set her empty glass on the desk. "Thanks for the shot."

"Nobody needs to know about this," he said. "Any of it."

She knew that included the underage drinking, the things he had told her about his mum... and the fact that he'd comforted her. "I agree, sir," she said, and then nodded. "I'll see you at dinner tomorrow."

"Yes, please, don't make me have to come down and collect you," he said.

Smirking, she turned on her heel and made her way toward the door. "Sir?" she said, pausing.

"Yes?"

"You called me 'Callie.'"

He didn't seem to understand her point. "Is that not your given name?" he asked sarcastically.

She hesitated, before explaining, "First time you've called me that in four years, sir. Strange hearing it in your voice."

He rolled his eyes and said, "Good night, Miss Warbeck."

Pulling open the door, she bit back a grin and called out, "Good night, Severus."