Sans Serpens
Chapter Four – Shattered Glass and Broken Heart
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Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
-Kahlil Gibran
Early Evening – August 27th, 1996
The rain fell in drenching torrents on one of the last evenings in August, prematurely casting grim shadows across the windows of Hogwarts castle. The only person that could have noticed this, however, was preoccupied with keeping her balance on the muddy slope to the castle's gates. Her eyes trained on her feet, she walked steadily onward, with slow, consistent strides. She slowed at the familiar sight of the Headmaster. He displaced the wards long enough for her to enter, and replaced them just as quickly. Security would have to be strict this year.
"Nice weather we're having this evening, isn't it, Headmaster?" she asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"I'm pleased to see that you have not lost your ability to find humor in the mundane," Dumbledore replied.
The two marched their way up to the stone steps at the entrance to the castle, the Headmaster doubling his usual pace to match that of his newest professor. He was still taken aback that she had accepted the position on such short notice. But he was grateful nonetheless.
Before they could reach the landing on the uppermost step, the double doors were flung open. On the other side stood Minerva McGonagall in a rare state of dishevelment.
"Albus, the Minister has been anticipating your arrival for the past hour. Where have you been?" she questioned impatiently.
"I was attending to other matters, as you are well aware," he returned. They exchanged a look, and crossed the threshold, Dumbledore signaling for the other witch to follow behind them.
McGonagall did not deviate in her direction as Dumbledore swerved right, presumably heading for his office. Tiaret was faced with a difficult decision. She did not know who to follow. On an impulse, she chose to follow McGonagall. Either choice would have been preferable to getting lost within a castle she had not entered in at least a decade.
After a time, they halted in front of a wide portrait, somewhere within the North Tower. McGonagall motioned the young witch forward, placed her own wand on the wall to the right of the portrait and positioned Tiaret's hand just under it. A soft glow formed around Tiaret's hand, which was not unusual. It was the heat of it that scared her. She flinched backward, staring between her hand and the wall, and watched as the glowing imprint faded into the stone. The portrait cracked open.
"You can set a password, if you wish,," McGonagall started, "but being keyed into the wards has its advantages."
"Like what?" They proceeded into the sitting room, which had a 'lived in' look about it. A l long sofa with overstuffed cushions lined one wall, beneath a set of portraits that appeared to contain each of the room's previous occupants. They appraised Tiaret mutely as she stretched herself out on the sofa. McGonagall took a seat in an armchair by the hearth, and within seconds ignited the few logs that rested there.
"For one, the wards are not nearly as susceptible to trickery. Students, for example, would have a difficult time attempting to duplicate your hand print and magical signature, or attempting to disable the wards. It is simply beyond their expertise." McGonagall located some floo powder and called down to the kitchens. She continued, "passwords are easily duplicated, one would only need to be hidden in the right place at the right time to overhear them." A house elf popped in, and placed two large trays on the low table in the center of the room.
"Anything else Minerva requires?" the elf questioned brightly. For an elf, she was stylishly dressed, a green pillowcase cut to appear like a tunic, cinched at the waist with a length of black ribbon. She stood still to await further instructions, with far less awkwardness than usual for her kind.
"Sage," McGonagall addressed the elf, "this is your new charge, Professor Nayeli Tiaret. She is new to teaching this year, and I trust you will make her feel most welcome here." The elf nodded and bounced over to Tiaret, offering a gracious bow to her before speaking.
"Sage is glad to be of service, Professor, and anything you is needing Sage will get you." She bowed again and Disapparated. McGonagall briefly explained how the elf could be summoned if needed. She then conjured a bottle of wine, and poured a glass each for herself and Tiaret.
"Now, on to other pressing matters." McGonagall swirled the burgundy liquid in her glass, unsure of where she should begin. "First thing's first, a toast in celebration of your new position. Let us hope, for the sake of the children, that you last longer than your predecessors," she gestured to the overhanging portraits with her glass.
"To more than one term," Tiaret toasted. McGonagall echoed her, and they each took a sip of wine. McGonagall took a seat on the solitary sofa, and began to help herself to one of the trays of food. Tiaret responded in kind.
"On a more serious note, I would like to ask you a few questions. Albus has repeatedly assured me that you pose no danger to the students, but by virtue of your past misdeeds I have a mind to think otherwise." She took a moment to look into Tiaret's eyes, to measure her reaction to open suspicion. "How long have you been a Death Eater, Miss Tiaret?" The witch in question twirled her wand nervously in her hands, and took a deep breath to calm herself.
"Thirteen years," she responded. McGonagall's face was a study of surprise.
"But Albus tells me you are only twenty-six. Is he mistaken?" she questioned Tiaret, trying not to allow shock to overtake her features. If what the young witch claimed was true, actually was true, it would be appalling, to say the least.
"No, he is not. I just turned, actually, less than a month ago. And might I add, that I am as reformed as the Headmaster has told you; I am no threat to the students."
"I suppose he wouldn't have hired you if there was the slightest chance that you would backslide into old behaviors." McGonagall reasoned. Tiaret simply nodded in agreement.
"What made your allegiance to You-Know-Who waver?" McGonagall pressed on, albeit in a more subdued, and less outright oppositional tone.
"Besides thirteen years of servitude, you mean? You desire specifics?" she stalled for time, not wanting to give McGonagall more of her sordid past than was absolutely necessary. And speaking of Him in polite company was in poor taste, or so Tiaret thought, and frankly she was feeling nauseated just thinking about it.
"When did you decide that opposing Him would be to your benefit?" McGonagall rephrased.
"When I graduated from Hogwarts my perceptions of the Dark Lord changed. He was growing stronger by that time, he was unable to maintain a physical form, but he was still capable of possessing others and feeding off of their strength." She paused, and drained her glass of wine. "But I understood then that his weakness was not due to the absence of his physical body but a result of the absence of logic in his ideals. If that makes any sense to you," she concluded.
"It makes perfect sense." She changed the subject. "And yet it took an additional nine years for you to seek refuge from that? Help me to understand, if you will."
"It was not until recently that the opportunity to escape presented itself. I received word that a few of your students were targets – the initial plans dictated that the students were to be taken captive, and the families in residence at the time of the attack were to be terminated. I forewarned Professor Dumbledore of these attacks, and promised that I would do all that I could to prevent them." Her eyes took on a distinct glassiness, but it was gone in moments, replaced by a neutral look so perfect that it seemed practiced.
"Did you not believe that the Or-- that the Aurors he called would be sufficient to rescue the endangered students and their families? Or, perhaps, did you believe that Albus would grant you amnesty for this one act of random kindness?" she asked in disbelief.
"Quite the contrary," Tiaret countered, "I expected to be thrown into Azkaban, no questions asked, but Professor, you must understand that the nature of targeted attacks is not predictable enough to be subverted easily. The time that the attack is to occur is not revealed until one is en route. The Headmaster could know that it was forthcoming, but precisely when the children would be taken was impossible for him to know in time for it to make any difference. I elected to risk my position within their ranks and my life to save as many students from harm as possible. For that, he could overlook my past and provide this sanctuary from it." McGonagall looked satisfied by her answer, and a true smile was on her face for the first time that evening in the presence of Tiaret.
"For a Slytherin, you show remarkable courage." Tiaret felt affronted by the comparison to Gryffindor, but chose not to show it. McGonagall drained her second glass of wine. "Is there anything else you will be needing this evening, Miss Tiaret, or may I take my leave?" She stood and vanished both empty glasses with a flourish, then replaced her wand within an inside pocket and waited for dismissal.
"If it is not an inconvenience, could I be directed to a Potions lab?
McGonagall murmured something under her breath, and proceeded to act as if she hadn't said anything. Muttered opinions really tended to irk Tiaret, to no end. She asked McGonagall what she said, to which she said simply, "nothing", and feigned ignorance. "If that is all, then yes, you can." I only said that you and Severus would make quite a pair, she repeated to herself.
"I know the perfect place."
Snape felt a disturbance in the familiar corridor as he stalked its length. No others were in the hall, but he felt someone nearby, the way you feel someone's scrutiny upon you without ever meeting their eyes. He advanced on one room in particular; the door was ajar and scant fumes escaped through it. They smelled faintly of cinnamon. He directed a gust of wind through his wand at the door. It opened wider. He had expected the occupant of Lab Seven to react, but in this he was disappointed. He moved to stand by the door frame. Snape could hear a cauldron bubbling inside, and above it, the sound of someone singing. A distinctly female sound. She was singing in a language Snape recognized but did not understand. She had better have a damned good excuse for invading my territory, or Merlin help her, he pledged. The song ended, leaving only the sound of the cauldron to betray her presence. He regained his composure and entered the lab, wand raised.
Snape assessed the intruder briefly, and lowered his wand a little. But not too much. Her concentration was such that it took her a full minute to realize that she had company. She looked his way, for all of a second, then set her potion to simmer with a muttered directive and a wave of her wand. That one second of eye contact, however, sparked him to put his wand away. He surmised that she was no threat, not to him anyway, so he chose not to act on the impulse to throw her bodily from his lab and his private store of ingredients that lay sheltered by its walls.
"Professor Snape, I presume?" she asked, offering her hand. He inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgment of her presumption, and received it. He shook only once, but once was enough for him to perceive a distinct tremor in her left hand.
"And you are?" Snape returned, not even trying to keep the contempt from his voice. She was an intruder to him, after all. It was not lost on her that he saw her as unwelcome there, but she had no intention of leaving until her potion was complete.
"Professor Tiaret," she introduced. He waited for Tiaret to elaborate, but instead she reverted her attention to the simmering cauldron. Snape did not recognize her by name nor by face, but something about the witch struck him as familiar. He spent a few minutes watching her, under the guise of watching her potion, trying desperately to remember.
Her stirring technique was slightly impaired by her shaking hands. He noticed. Her eyes were a plain black color, unremarkable, in Snape's opinion. Her hair was pinned in an uptight bun, with not a strand out of place, though not unusual in definition or color. Tiaret's figure was entirely hidden by a high-necked robe of deepest burgundy, emphasizing her short stature and small, rounded shoulders. All things considered by Snape, she was remarkable only in the fact that she was utterly common and indistinct. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind lay the notion that he should remember her. But he did not know why.
"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Snape ventured. "A Master Potioneers Convention, perhaps?" He noted no flicker of recognition on her face, she simply continued to shakily stir.
"As you may have already deduced, I would not have needed to introduce myself had we met before." She ceased stirring for the benefit of adding another ingredient, a finely granulated powder, of some sort. "And I would hardly consider myself a Master in anything, much less in Potions." She laughed at her own expense. He let the matter drop, for the moment, anyway, and let his curiosity lend his attention to another aspect of the scene before him.
"May I ask what you are brewing in my lab this evening?" he interrogated, keeping a level, almost civil tone.
"I would rather you didn't," Tiaret answered tersely, "I'm not using your ingredients, if that is what you are worried about." She Vanished some excess supplies from the other side of the cauldron, before he could see what they were. Snape found it suspicious that she was suddenly on edge, so he decided to take a different tack.
"What is it," he walked around to hover at her shoulder, "that you will be teaching here this term?" He peered into her cauldron, noted the sickly green color, and moved to a less invasive distance off to her right. "Muggle Studies?" He twisted the words on his tongue, feigning contempt. Snape knew of no pureblood Tiarets, nor did he care, he solely wanted to get under her skin. Metaphorically, of course.
"If you must know..." she trailed off, indignant. Clearly she registered his tone, and cleared her throat, at a temporary loss of words, she was. She took a breath to calm herself, which he noted with some satisfaction. "I will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to N.E.W.T. Level this term," she announced proudly, despite her prior irritation. Snape was now thoroughly unsatisfied. As that approach bore no fruit, he chose to move forward with what he knew best: potions and their ingredients.
He spent a few seconds in silent observation of what was left on the low table that supported her work. A small bottle of Dittany was peeking out from behind the cauldron, empty and lying on its side. A few discarded valerian roots near her left hand, all meticulously chopped to quarter-inch lengths, but sadly there were more remaining than were necessary for any potion, medicinal or otherwise. Such a waste, Snape thought, I wonder if she knows that they cannot be reused once cut. Some powdered moonstone lay in a stone mortar, leftover from the previous stage of the potion. Snape thought he detected the scent of murtlap essence, as well, but he could not confirm it visually. All fairly innocuous ingredients, as he understood it; they were routinely used in many potions prior to O.W.L. Level, and yet something about the setup unnerved him. It seemed almost too innocent for her to be that secretive about her intent. The salamander blood, however, was a dead giveaway as to her purpose. He smirked.
He knew precisely what she was brewing, and he was fully determined to make good use of the information.
"You see," he began nonchalantly, "the irony to that potion is that it can only be made correctly while one is not in need of it. Such is the downfall of any Anti-Cruciatus elixir or potion." Her jaw clenched in anger at being discovered, however, she made no retort. He refocused on the potion, imbibing her fury like an antidote. Snape had won this battle. She went back to her work stiffly, as if trying not to allow her emotion to effect its outcome. As in any high-risk potion, all movement was critical and needed to be precise to the centimeter.
"You really must go," she said, "I need utmost concentration." She cut a small gash into her palm, cupping her hand to prevent it from bleeding overmuch. A few drops tentatively bubbled to the surface, at which point she began adding her blood to the potion. Wincing she urged one drop after another into the frothing cauldron. One, two, three... with effort she turned her head to see Snape, six, seven... the potion swirled, and Snape's eyes went wide as dinner plates, eight, nine...
"Get out!"
"Get down!"
The tenth drop was added. Many things occurred simultaneously: the potion hissed menacingly, like a steaming kettle upon a stove, Snape dived to push Tiaret away from her cauldron, the knife flew across the room like a dart and impaled itself in the opposite wall, and both Professors landed in a heap on the stone floor, inches away from the door yet yards away from the inevitable explosion.
The cauldron did not disappoint.
Snape made short work of cleaning the lab, with a combination of Vanishing spells and Scouring Charms where applicable, and would have additionally scrubbed out the cauldron by hand had it not already melted. He kept casting glances at the floor where Tiaret still sat, utterly still and silent, either unwilling or incapable of helping him. She was holding her side and her eyes were closed. Snape assumed it was a result of his roughness, but did not ultimately care. Had he not pushed her away from harm, she would be in worse pain and have more to show for it than mere contusions. As far as he was concerned, his lab suffered more damage than she had from being unceremoniously pushed to the stone. He supposed he owed her an apology, but the urge subsided, replaced by a mild irritation that she resolutely stayed put as he made an effort to put his lab back into some semblance of order. The day Snape apologized to anyone, whether or not it was warranted, was the day he gave Miss Granger points for a perfect potion. That is to say, not at all if he had any say in the matter. Which he very well did in this case.
Tiaret slowly rose to her feet, and took a seat upon one of the stools that lined the wall. Snape stared at her unblinkingly. He affected his best lecture stance, arms folded across his chest, and thought of what best to say in the situation to take back the reigns of control. It had escaped him, he figured, the moment he decided against hexing first and asking questions later.
"As it stands, you have two options. Either I escort you to the Hospital Wing and let Madam Pomfrey have a look at your ribs there, which will surely take all night, or..." he took in her look of dismay, and tried to resist smirking at that dour expression he knew all too well. He was at that time convinced that it was impossible for anyone to be comfortable with the prospect of spending a night in the Wing. Apparently she was of the same opinion.
"Or," he continued, "you could explain to me what you did to deserve the Cruciatus, and I could... aid in your recovery, as best I can." He empathized with her, in his own odd way. Never mind that Snape's empathy could also be interpreted as blackmail, on occasion.
"How can I be sure you won't run off and gossip to your friends of my misfortune?" she asked, rather immaturely for a woman of her age.
"I make no promises." He made to inspect his fingernails, as if he had not a care in the world. Only Snape could make indifference into an art form. And he was currently working on what would be his masterpiece of the evening. "If it is any consolation, I have no friends, nor would I deign to gossip, as you so eloquently put it, even if I had." He gave what would have been a confidential piece of information, to anyone with emotions that is, with as much inflection as if he were simply remarking on the weather.
She mulled it over. On the one hand, Pomfrey could help her manage the pain, if she was lucky. But Tiaret would have to forfeit pride and privacy for that to occur. On the other, Snape knew what potion she attempted, and was more likely to have a fitting equivalent than Pomfrey, if she remembered anything at all of his reputation, and he was far less likely to fret over her condition after treating her. Quite improbable, if not impossible. She guessed that he would give her something for the obvious pain, from being shoved to the floor, and then probably tell her to get out of his sight, despite that he knew of her underlying problem. He seemed like the type that would be on the receiving end of Cruciatus, and by her estimation, more than a healthy number of times. Nonetheless, he had a reputation of being cruel and unrelenting, and not altogether accommodating when it came to the suffering of others. Tiaret also assumed that he would humiliate her, and make the pain that much harder to bear by withholding the antidote until she gave some deep confession.
Be that as it may, Tiaret was still a Slytherin at heart. She could play mind games, too.
"Well, I'm not above discussing it, over a glass of wine, perhaps... as long as you answer me in kind." She got up, smoothed out her robe and closed the distance between them, meeting his eyes for the second time that evening. Tiaret saw expectation in his; he saw nothing but his reflection in hers.
"What does one ever do to deserve it?"
Tiaret earned a small amount of respect from him then, but she was not made aware of this change of his perceptions until much time had passed.
Nearing Midnight – August 27th, 1996
They marched in tandem down the dungeon corridors, both sets of robes billowing in their wake, and came to a halt in front of a nondescript wooden door, flanked on either side by unlit sconces.
"The infamous private storeroom," Tiaret declared. He shot up a questioning eyebrow, to which she merely shrugged. It was not as if its location were a guarded secret, but to speak of it with such reverence was indecent if you were neither the Potions Master, nor a recipient of his potions. That only made him suspicious, that perhaps she might have had a hand in one of the many thefts over the decade or so of his teaching career.
"Just how are you acquainted with it? I don't suppose you were a Slytherin when you attended here, or else I would have remembered you sooner." He took this opportunity to remove the wards as well as try to probe further into her past. Snape could not shake the feeling that he knew her, and would not rest until he was absolutely sure that he didn't.
"Why, Professor Snape, I am deeply offended that you cannot recognize a fellow Snake when you see one, but that is no excuse to insult my intelligence, as well." She adopted a wounded look for effect, that seemed completely at odds with the rest of her features. "I fear that, by now, this place is destined to end up like all other secrets within Hogwarts – that is to say, public knowledge amidst the most undeserving of it." Tiaret measured his response, and was impressed by herself for rendering him speechless. At least for the time being.
He busied himself plucking one potion after another from the many shelves, some that appeared more suspect than others, only to dismiss a majority of them back to their original positions once more with a shake of his head or a few words, whispered for his ears only. As to their purposes, Tiaret would never know, nor did she want to ask. He returned with three bottles of differing sizes, which he stowed in an inside pocket as he made to replace his wards.
"Follow me." He swept down the hall at a slower pace, opened another door, and gestured her to precede him into his office and be seated. He made no pretense of uncorking a bottle of Rosmerta's Finest oak-matured mead, then in no time at all, he poured them both a generous glass and took his seat behind the desk. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. It could have been because they had both survived another potion gone wrong, and were now in shock in its aftermath. Or, it could have been because every footfall from here forward was a potential step into uncharted territory for the both of them. Either way, there was no decent icebreaker for such a situation and neither one of the professors seemed willing to break the silence. Snape was the first to speak.
"What does one ever do to deserve it?" Snape repeated, more for his own benefit than hers. He sipped from his glass and frowned into it pensively. She studied him curiously, wondering if her assumption about him earlier held any basis in fact. Snape seemed to snap out of a trance at that instant, as if upon the brink of a sudden realization, and he set down his glass, retrieving the bottles he had found for her. He lined them up within her reach at the opposite edge of his desk, and prepared to extol the purposes and virtues of each.
"This," he began, pointing at the emerald bottle that had the appearance of being squashed, "is Dreamless Sleep, which I am positive needs no explanation. Take one teaspoon," he pulled out a small vial, seemingly from midair, and measured her dosage, "right before bed, as you may know, its effects are instantaneous, so be prepared." He passed her the vial, and moved on to the second in the impromptu lineup.
"Here we have a basic salve for bruises that you may have incurred this evening, apply a thin coat each night until they clear up, then kindly return the remainder." She took this from the desk and waited for the final one to be explained.
He picked up the last container, a spherical glass bottle, violently turquoise in color, and swirled its contents as he addressed.
"This last," he paused to locate a goblet, and measure yet another dosage for Tiaret, "is the potion you would have succeeded to brew tonight had you not let your emotions overrule logic." He passed her the goblet, and she drank unashamedly, as if she was being given water from the Fountain of Youth or something similar. She did not even react to what he knew was one of the fouler tastes among drinkable potions.
"Thank you," she told him, and Snape returned the goblet to its rightful place and at length took to staring into his glass again in silence. Her gratitude was not misplaced; the potion effected her muscles within minutes, and she heaved a sigh of relief for being able to breathe again painlessly. Her other injuries could heal without potions, naturally, given the right time and environment, but those that the Cruciatus had inflicted needed this specific antidote. Tiaret would be incapable of functioning in the days ahead without something to bring back coordination and circulation to her weary limbs. And she could thank Snape forever for that one act of generosity on his part, whether he thought it sincere or not, and it still would not be enough to equal the gratitude she felt for the man at that moment in time. If any other person were to examine my distress, I doubt that they would have been as equipped to handle it, she reflected, though I can't put my finger on why that would be so.
"Why can't I remember teaching you? It seems you are of the age to have graduated within the past ten years, and yet..." he fell silent again, trying to make sense of it in his own mind before continuing, "and yet I find myself at a loss. Care to enlighten me?"
"I cannot imagine why, but I can confirm that I was only a student of yours for three years. My memories of school have since blurred together, but I do recall you beating out old Professor Slughorn for Potions at the beginning of my third," she sipped the mead appreciatively, and felt almost nostalgic remembering the simpler time that was her stay at Hogwarts.
"Only three years? Why, with the talent you demonstrated earlier, did you not rise to N.E.W.T. Level?" he inquired in genuine curiosity. She set her glass down on the desk and straightened up in her chair.
"I dropped out prior to sixth year, and took correspondence courses from then on. My parents... felt it would be irresponsible to send me back, they thought it was unsafe for me to remain here separated from them. So I left." Throughout her explanation, she kept her eyes downcast, and presently the silence shifted from peaceable, to being discomfiting. He sensed that something was still missing from her story, but decided not to press the point.
Snape had no questions left in mind to ask her, and was still far from remembering. There was one thing left to do if he wanted to leave a good impression, if he wanted to be able to ask her more questions as he thought of them, so he did it. He put a box around his curiosity and filed it away, and left her to her thoughts in peace. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, as was his habit when he was exhausted or irritated, and by no stretch of the imagination he could safely concede that she must have been as tired as he was.
"I can accompany you to your quarters, if you like; the North Tower, correct?" She nodded in agreement. "Unless you believe you can find it on your own without difficulty?" The two left the office, and the walk to the Tower was over sooner than either one expected it to be.
Tiaret, for one, downed the vial of Dreamless Sleep and collapsed on the bed, which she had barely located when the potion hit her full force. She was instantly asleep and lost in a dull black dreamless void, a welcome respite from recurring nightmares that plagued her all too often to not be real. Snape could not hope for that peace without the same potion, yet he denied himself that luxury and instead sat down with a glass of wine and think on the enigma that was Tiaret. He forced himself to sift through his packaged memories, worn and yellowed with age, with fine attention to detail. He would not let the memory elude him any longer.
He stood to pace at his mantelpiece. Snape always did his best thinking while in motion. He thought back to all the women he had bedded, a short list, and then to all those he had dated, an even shorter list, and she took no place on either, much to his disappointment. If he taught her in her third year, there was no possibility of them ever being classmates, and yet therein lay his problem. He taught her, but he did not remember teaching her. She may not have been a model pupil, but that was no excuse in his reasoning; if anything, the colossal failures in Potions were made all the more memorable by their lack of skill. Snape knew of only one female Death Eater, and she was emphatically not Bellatrix.
So what remained were two possibilities that he could fathom would fit into her identity, and his unsettling feeling of connection to her. Either she was a former victim of the Death Eaters at a Revel, or a former acquaintance, picked up by another Death Eater for use as decoration at said Revel. He could not believe those options either, they were unfit to describe her, he was certain that the mental block was more than coincidental, so simple answers were not the solution to his dilemma.
It was then he remembered. The images flooded his consciousness without warning and he was frozen in his pacing by their assault of his senses. He barely heard it when his wine glass fell and shattered at his feet, and he could not suppress nor lessen the intensity of his memories as they resurfaced. He felt everything as if it were happening all over again, only it was worse this time that he was powerless to protect himself from it. And he already knew how the story ended, and it was gravely lacking a 'happily ever after'.
There would be no sleep for him that night.
A/N: Chapter title credits are as follows -- Out of Sight, Out of Mind - Old proverb; In Search of Memory - Nymphaea (fictionalley[dot]org); Shattered Glass and Broken Heart - RENT_Serenity (fictionalley).
