Alright, so I was threatened most severely to remove the first paragraph or so of my last AN, but I am lazy beyond all reason, so I hope a recall will suffice. I'm posting this earlier than I planned, but hey, as I said before, I am a review-aholic, and you managed to convince me to break my schedualed plan. So here's the next chapter! I just love the beginning of this one; Snape is so horribly confused, but he has no idea that he is. Or at least, he has no idea why he is confused. The poor, poor man.
Breath rushed through lips twisted into a pained snarl in a torrent of impotent rage and futile shock. Snape tenderly massaged his forehead with one thin, white hand. So the foolish chit really was incapacitated by love. His shock inspired almost hysterical mirth as the thought, I knew she could not be in love with Lupin, spun through his head. He imagined he should have followed her. A dashing, noble man like Lupin would have scurried after her to alleviate her fears, but he knew there was nothing noble or dashing about himself. So, he allowed himself to sink further into the moth-eaten furniture. He watched tiny dust motes sparkle silver and gold in the lamp light through eyes half lidded in pain and surprise. His only tethers to consciousness were the curious blankness to his thoughts and the debilitating pain radiating along his spine to the base of his skull and beneath his eyes to the soles of his feet. The humiliating clamor of ice against glass as his hand shook while reaching to set his finished drink aside caused the fury to well up again. He was weakening, and he knew it. Eventually, this war would claim his life. But he had never feared the thought before, and he still did not. He would die, and he had had plenty of time to prepare himself for the inevitable. However, he realized as he let his body lie limply in the shadowy library, he had never considered what to do when life caught up to him. He knew what to do when death finally stood next to him, but when life offered him a chance to live, he had no idea how to reply. So, he sank deeper into his thoughts as the too soft cushions attempted to swallow him.
He noted off-handedly that the ceiling was littered with interesting water marks. The brown stains branched and swirled in a gracefully chaotic pattern as he swam through thoughts viscous with dismayed apprehension. What was he supposed to do? Should he let her love him for the remainder of his time left? But how long would he have to play the foolish game with her? He had no idea when his inexorable end would come. The simple answer was to destroy her misguided infatuation immediately. He sighed and expected the familiar satisfied feeling of coming to a conclusion, but the empty confusion remained. His eyes slid in and out of focus making the brown patterns on the white ceiling dance and writhe. It would be wise to obviate her feelings for him; the pain that invariably accompanied such an emotion would do neither him nor her any good. Yet, the persisting tingle that suggested he was missing some important component continued to pulsate through him.
Water pooled in the corners of his eyes as he kept his head tilted against the decrepit back of the couch. He realized as a thin tear attempted to slide across his temple that he had not blinked in some time. The sting of dry eyes begged him to close his eyelids, but he found he could not. The comfort of complete relaxation was a numb paradise he was not willing to leave. Here, he could forget about the aches and the pains of his body. Here, all that mattered was the strength of his mind, and that had never disappointed him before. As he slid deeper into the numb paralysis, thoughts of a pink haired girl smiling rabidly from the shadows brushed through his thoughts with all the subtlety she possessed in reality. In a heartbeat he had discarded her again, but she reemerged as the blue haired whirlwind she had been earlier. She had felt rage and sorrow; the feelings were as apparent on her face as they were in her words. When she spoke so softly and shyly, he had felt the irrational need to goad her until she screamed or lashed out at him. The task had proven surprisingly easy. He was prepared for the accompanying scorn that always followed his success, but it never rose. The absence of the feeling jarred him from his stupor with a force that sent him reeling. He felt nothing but vague curiosity when he thought of the raving speech he had incited from her. The tentative curiosity almost tasted of remorse when he thought of the truths and wounds she had spewed forth like bile and blood after his poisoning. He imagined he had wounded her quite severely; through all her tears and flushed skin, her words stank of an old pain festering in sorrow and absolute misery. A thought occurred to him as he stared blankly at the swirling brown stains on the ceiling, and he shuddered with the implications of it. Perhaps they truly were more alike than he cared to know.
Tonks sluggishly made her way home to her empty flat. Every joint ached and her head throbbed painfully. The nauseating ache threading through her made her feel drunk without the subsequent euphoria. Her stomach churned and her throat worked frantically to keep the bile down. She shivered with every brush of her bitterly wet and cold clothes against her skin. With her nose and eyes streaming and her hair plastered to her scalp, she stomped up the three flights of stairs to her door. She didn't trust herself enough to do anything but walk home, and now her legs and feet punished her for her weakness. The despair that crowned her made her wonder if she really thought she would make it through this war alive. Optimism was seeping through her pores like evaporating sweat; she couldn't find it in herself to hope. Her boots rang on the winding metal staircase, and her thin fingers wrapped around the bitingly cold banister she used to haul herself up to each new step. She hated the dimly lit hallway and whining squeal of the heating unit attempting to warm the building. Her despondency lightened momentarily for her to say her thanks that her flat had its own heating system no matter how small and frail it was.
The dull blankness of her peeling door stood before her, but she couldn't move to find her key. She imagined she would have started sobbing again if she hadn't been so tired, but as it was, she let her forehead slam against the lifeless grey door while her body shook uncontrollably. She was so tired she couldn't make herself think. Her right shoulder was pressed painfully against the door and her other hand sank methodically into her pocket to retrieve her key. The satisfying crunch of the lock opening and her door swinging open was enough to sweep her inside without a thought. She couldn't let herself think. On its own accord, her hand swept out and flicked on the lights. The oppressive gloom shrank into all the small corners of the flat, just biding its time. Her eyes automatically turned away.
She peeled her soaked clothes from her body as she shuffled thoughtlessly through her small flat. She was moving with the vague intention of finding her flannel pajamas, but she didn't have a distinct destination in mind. Every step sounded of one foot smacking against threadbare carpet and the slap of wet cloth as she discarded her clothes without a care. Finally standing in front of the oval mirror suspended over her dresser, she could see the darkness of her wet, flame colored hair stretched toward her waist. She could see the dark circles outlining her violet eyes like twin bruises, and her cheekbones jutted sickeningly from her pale skin. She looked ill and alone. Her lips were a pale pink almost the same shade as her skin. Delicately, she ran her tongue over their chapped surface, but no answering color rose. Her skin was prickled with thousands of tiny goose-bumps, and she was so tired. Tearing her eyes away from her reflection, she pulled on her warmest pajamas and crawled into bed.
The morning was an answering grey to yesterday's malignant rain. Tonks wished she could stay in bed. Her body begged not to move, and she clung to her pillow. She felt the vestiges of sleep pulling her back into the comforting realms of dream when the screech of owl's claws against glass jolted her from the warmth of her bed. Angrily, she ripped her feet from the sheets and stumbled to her window. The bird's yellow eyes seemed to stare through her as she carefully removed the note and turned it away. She had nothing to offer it.
The parchment was heavy in her hands, and she was hesitant to open it. It was a nondescript color without any address on the outside. It could be from anyone. Except her mother, she admitted. That note still sat on her kitchen table begging her to reply at the very least. She was expecting a Howler any day now for her lack of response. Gingerly, she climbed into bed again and pulled the sheets back up to her chin. Without another delay readily available, she unfolded the parchment she imagined was as heavy as her apprehension.
The handwriting was all familiar sharp lines and cramped angles. Fear and surprise attempted to choke her as she recognized the script. Snape had decided to write to her. She quickly read the note. Then she read it again, more slowly. The third time was just as shocking. Scrawled in his spiky print was the message, "Perhaps, Miss Tonks, you would find the Alocutus potion most useful." His signature was crushed against the bottom of the paper as if it was nothing more than an afterthought.
She felt something akin to white hot rage blooming in her chest. The small parchment didn't stand a chance against being crushed in her fist. Fury spurred her out of bed and down her hall into the kitchen. With disheveled hair and flushed skin, she looked like a demon out of Hell. Her eyes were shining manically and her pajamas were sliding off one thin shoulder as she muttered unintelligibly about bastard potion masters and their damned potions. Shoving bread into the toaster and dumping orange juice into her glass, Tonks continued to rave and glare at every hapless appliance in her small kitchen.
So, the bastard thought she needed a potion to keep her from babbling incoherent words and phrases, did he? Well, she would bloody well show him. The loud pop of the toaster spun her around with her wand at the ready and knees bent in the defensive position. Thoughts were forming rapidly and she was discarding them just as quickly; the problem with Severus Snape was that he was the most cunning, most devious man on the face of the Earth. No plan could be anything less than perfect when dealing with him.
So, Tonks deliberated. She planned through breakfast, and she calculated through her shower. She plotted as she dressed and schemed when she was supposed to be working. She even reckoned through the lecture her superior, Auror Ratchett, gave her when it became apparent that all her files were missing since she attempted to clean by removing the problem. It occurred to her later that her briefcase was still sitting in Grimmauld. And so, she found herself outside the ancient doors once again with the intention of retrieving the errant briefcase when the perfect ploy came to her. Therefore, she all but skipped into the dank recesses of Grimmauld in her search for her missing files with a grin that threatened to split her face in half.