Chapter 8 Suspicions and The Subconscious
"Gareth, why don't you just drop an anvil on my head now and be done with it?" A flustered Tristan Peverell stormed into his goblin advisor's office.
"My Lord, you should not be here! Lord Prince is still in the Lair. He cannot go unsupervised longer than a day in there –you have the amulet –he –"
"Oh, calm down. I'll just use a Time-Turner." Tristan waved him off. "it's just –argh! This is so bloody frustrating! Why does it have to be difficult?"
"I'm afraid I cannot answer that, my Lord."
Tristan sighed dejectedly.
"Can we not talk about him for five minutes? I want to know how Bill Weasley is progressing."
"He is in the second training lair right now as we speak, my Lord. Gorbink is with him. You are right. He is more trusting of us goblins than any wizard I've met –with your exception, of course."
Tristan smiled.
"At least something is going right." He began to pace the length of Gareth's office. "What of the missives for tomorrow's affair?"
"All set and ready to go, Lord Peverell. It will automatically be sent to all concerned parties, two hours prior to the scheduled trial for tomorrow."
"I see," Tristan nodded. "Can you make sure Professor McGonagall and her party are escorted to the event as well?"
"I will see to that, my Lord."
Tristan sighed and eyed the clock behind Gareth's desk.
"Has it been five minutes yet?"
Gareth smiled.
"More or less, my Lord."
"Kill me now."
"I'm afraid that I cannot do that, sir."
"Can't or won't?" Tristan challenged him. The goblin smirked.
"Both." The young Lord sighed yet again.
"Can you remind me why am I doing this again, Gareth?" His liaison gave him a pointed look.
"As the High Lord of Wizengamot, it is your duty to seek and implement justice and equality, as Lord Tristan Peverell, you have the pact weighing on your shoulders, as your own self, you care for Lord Prince –you have before in your former life, and you still do in this new undertaking."
Tristan rolled his eyes before breaking into a smile.
"It was a rhetorical question –but thanks, Gareth. I just wish that the 'whys' would somehow translate into 'hows'. I am still clueless as to the right approach. Nothing seems to work –and I still have almost a month left with him inside the Lair! I won't last if he keeps on intimidating me!"
"Well, why do you not just be yourself? And yes, I mean your former self, Lord Peverell. You seemed to have given Lord Prince a run for his money with that back then –"
"But that isn't me anymore, my good goblin. Four years is more than enough to change a man. I am no longer that bold and reckless brat I once was –and besides, he hates that. And he is already suspicious. I don't want him knowing the truth until after I make sure he's through the woods with Fudge and Umbridge. Need I remind you of what could possibly happen if he comes to know of my true identity? And what of the pact? I assure you, he'd rather lose his magic than fulfill his end of the bargain!"
Gareth looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps if you stop thinking too much, my Lord, things will just fall into place."
Tristan stared at the goblin before running his fingers through his hair.
"I –I suppose…"
"And let him toy with his suspicions from time to time –"
"WHAT?"
"No, Lord Peverell, it is a most wise approach. If he is to find out about your secret on his own –gradually –he is less likely to feel betrayed than if you do reveal it yourself."
The auburn-haired young noble's face was indescribable.
"I suppose that your suggestion would make sense if my brain was functioning correctly."
Gareth grinned.
"It would, Lord Peverell."
Lord Peverell eyed him warily.
"By any chance you have that anvil around here somewhere?"
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Severus sighed dejectedly. It seemed that Euphrates prince did not keep a written record of his memoirs. His ledger was comprised mostly of Potions patents (he invented the Elixir to Induce Euphoria, it seemed) a few land titles, and lots of unmarked vials whose contents were only annotated as 'for storage'.
The Potions Master felt a headache coming on. It was already past midnight. He decided to turn in for the night and continue his research the following morning.
As soon as his head hit his pillow, he was dreaming.
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Severus straightened the collar of his black silk dress robes as he walked down a grand staircase leading to a massive ballroom. The floor was a gleaming rose-colored marble and the place was surrounded by huge glass cathedral windows. Real fairy lights adorned the boughs of pine and holly hanging over each and every one of them. A sea of votive candles floated high up in the air, giving the area and almost ethereal glow. Soft music wafted from an unseen string quartet –the beginnings of a waltz. A mass of people began to stand up and dance, as he reached the foot of the stairs, surveying the crowd as if looking for something.
"Would you honor me with this dance, Lord Prince?"
Severus turned to look, and saw an impeccably dressed man in royal blue dress robes. The man had long tousled, jet-black hair that went down to his shoulders, a delicately tanned skin, and full red lips. He was also wearing a bejeweled half-mask to match his robes –but his brilliant emerald eyes shone right through.
"Lord Peverell?" Severus asked. The man smiled and extended his hand towards him.
"Please, call me Nile,":
'Nile?' Severus raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. 'So this is Nile Peverell?' he found himself staring at the man and being drawn to the High Lord's eyes. Severus took the proffered hand. Nile's grin widened as he led the Potions Master to the dance floor.
Nile Peverell was an excellent dancer and Severus found himself mesmerized by the young nobleman's grace and fluidity –it was almost as if it was already second nature to him to be able to dance that way –almost like breathing.
"Enjoying yourself, Lord Prince?"
"Yes," Severus answered truthfully. Nile chuckled lightly. The onyx-eyed man found himself frowning.
"What is it, that you find amusing?"
Nile stopped laughing but his smile never left his face.
"You. I never had you pegged for the dancing type."
|it just goes to show you, Lord Peverell. Things aren't always what they seem,"
Nile's eyes caught the light. His mask sparkled in the candle glow but his eyes still pierced right through. Severus found himself almost hypnotized by the sight.
"Too true, Lord Prince, too true," he sighed. The waltz ended. The other couples stopped dancing and broke into applause. But Nile did not let go of Severus. Instead, he pulled the obsidian-eyed man closer to him. Severus' breathing almost ceased as his heart started beating wildly against his chest. Nile released his hand, but only to place it on the other side of his waist. Their faces were leveled.
"Lord Prince- " Nile began.
"Please, call me Severus…"
Nile's lips curled into a serene smile.
"Severus." And the man thought that his name had never sounded so beautiful as it did coming from the young Lord's lips.
"Nile," he breathed, his own hands moving to cup the bemasked man's face. Nile drew closer.
"May I kiss you, Severus?"
Onyx eyes widened in surprise, the cheeks it belonged to flushed deeply.
"May –may I see your face?" he whispered back. Nile smiled.
"Unmask me then,"
Severus' fingers came to life on its own and inched to remove the mask. With a deep breath, he pulled it off and gasped.
"Ha- Harry?"
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Severus bolted right up from his bed, large beads of sweat dotting his forehead.
"WHAT –in Merlin's name –was THAT?"
He checked the charmed clock by his bedside table. It read: 3:05 a.m.
'Too early.' Severus thought as he carded his long, potions-stained fingers through his damp locks and pushed the covers off of himself. He regularly went to bed wearing nothing but a pair of boxers –and that instance was no different –except for that obvious tent ,coming through the delicate silk fabric, between his legs.
"Great, just great," he murmured as he threw on a dressing robe and made his way to the bathroom. There was no way in hell that he could go back to sleep in that highly aroused state. Severus managed to make it to the shower in one piece. He turned the water on. It was bone-chilling, but it was just what he needed. He bent his head under the douche and let the water assault his tensed muscles. His thoughts then wandered back to the extremely confusing dream he had.
"Stupid bloody dream… stupid bloody Potter! Why must you invade even my nightmares?" Severus sighed as he thought back to his encounter with Nile Peverell. Why would Nile Peverell look even remotely like Potter? Why would his subconscious mind even make that connection? Did the medi-wizards at St. Mungo's misdiagnosed him? Was this paranoia of some sort? It was all too confusing. He hadn't even been thinking about the brat lately, so why would the brash Gryffindor star in any of his dreams? What was his mind playing at?
He stood under the ice-cold shower for what seemed like light-years, contemplating on his peculiar vision. Aside from that spoiler at the end, Severus thought that it was clear how he felt for the High Lord –or at least the image he portrayed, if the erection he got from merely dreaming of the man was any indication. But, did that actually translate to what he was supposed to feel for Tristan? In his dream, Nile Peverell wasn't anything like his young successor; they looked different, they moved differently, even their speech was not at all similar. If anything, Severus would be pressed to say, Nile was more akin to… Harry Bloody Potter. His hair, his eyes, his roguish charm…
'Merlin, I am losing it,' The Potions Master sighed. 'My whole life has been all about the brat –why must he figure into this new avenue as well? Even in his absence he still manages to torment me. Why, Harry? Why?' He then hit his head on the tiled wall. 'And why did I just call him Harry? When did he become Harry?' Harry had always been Potter to him: the annoying brat, the quintessential foolish Gryffindor. When he began training the boy in his fifth year, he had never been more than just a student to Severus –an annoying unwanted burden of a student. Surely, the animosity between them gradually lessened over time, and they may have even exchanged a few polite words over the course of the last war, but it never went beyond that –at least, that was what the Professor in him had wanted to think. They weren't friends, for they may never fully overcome all the bad blood between them spanning more than over two decades, but they were certainly not enemies.
But he was still somewhat aware of the sideway glances, the extra touches, the lingering smiles from the boy, when he thought that his most hated professor wasn't looking. Severus Snape was not an effective spy if he did not see from his peripheral vision what Potter was doing –what the boy thought were things that went unnoticed by the older wizard. And Severus would not have been an effective spy if he did not make the connection: heaven forbid, Potter fancied him.
For some unknown reason though, he could not bring himself to be disgusted by the notion, as he thought he would be at first. Surely, the boy –no, the young man – was too juvenile, too naïve, too annoying –but he had to admit, although he would not say it out loud even under the threat of a vicious death, that Potter was quite attractive and charming to an extent.
Severus shook his head. When he started to think of Harry Potter as 'attractive' and 'charming', that was a very clear sign that he was really losing it. He turned the water off and reached for a towel.
Maybe after all of this ruckus, he could visit that mind healer once more.