Chapter 3

Proposal

Severus Snape dropped the piece of lightly scented parchment into the bin beside his desk and sat back in his chair. Winifred had reacted exactly as he had expected. Unfortunately, the pleasure he would normally have got from reading her furious "thank you" note was greatly dimmed by the other letter that he had received by the evening owl.

He had spent three extremely uneasy days since seeing Patience and her mother in town. He had been painfully aware of the sharp, appraising look in Morag's eyes at the end of their conversation. She had looked almost pleased about something, which Snape knew could not bode well for him or anyone. He had known that Morag had seen him looking briefly at Patience and had assumed that she would notice that his look was anything but avuncular or professorial. Morag was no fool; she would be more than used to noticing which wizards had an interest in her daughter. In fact, it was most likely that she had made a practice of looking for such interest because it might be used to advantage. Snape would do nothing less if he had a daughter that looked half as attractive.

He was also sure that there was no possibility of Morag thinking that he had anything but a passing interest in the girl. He was absolutely certain that his secret was very safe, but any contemplation of him by Morag Kent was cause for concern.

Snape pulled out a silver box from his pocket and flicked back the lid. With two practised fingers, he took a pinch of the silvery grey dried needles inside and dropped them on the concave surface of the inner lid. When he tapped the side of the box with his finger, a large purple flame erupted under his nose, which Snape carefully breathed in. This batch of sand needle had not been nearly as good as the last lot Beadle had sent him. He knew that it was easy for Beadle to cheat customers such as himself, who did not have the funds to pay for better quality. However, Snape must still find a way so that Beadle did not forget again that Severus Snape was a customer Beadle did not want to lose.

It was time that he opened the letter and found out what Morag wanted from him. Snape pulled a heavy silver paper knife with a large crested seal on one end from the drawer and slit open the rolled parchment. As he smoothed the letter out on his desk with one bony, white hand, he immediately knew that this was not what he had thought. The letter was from William Kent.

With a sharp gesture of his finger to the fire, the flames of which immediately raised so high that the hook-nosed, heavy browed witch in the portrait above the mantelpiece exclaimed in surprise, Snape picked up the letter that he had finished reading and then tossed it into the grate. As he watched the parchments shrivel and burn, Snape seethed silently about the incredible presumption of Morag. Who did she imagine that she was? It might have been William who wrote the letter, but Snape knew without a doubt that this was Morag's doing and no one else's. Severus Snape had not been this furious in longer than he could remember.

He walked round the red brocade bench, which he had come to hate, and wrenched open the doors of the glass front cabinet that held his better liquors. Snape pulled down the blood red glass bottle with the strange runes and figures carved down the sides and pulled out the stopper. He had already drunk two small goblets that day and it was very unwise to have another. However, he had to clear his head. If he was going to extricate himself from this ridiculous situation, then he had to be able to think straight. Therefore, he would allow himself another half glass now and not have any more until morning.

As he waited for his muscles to feel the characteristic, involuntary twitch that would tell him the sap was entering his blood stream, Snape held onto the tabletop to stabilise himself. However, the sap-tweak was more convulsive than normal, which Snape knew was not a good sign. As he felt ice-cold reason return to his mind and easiness pass over his jumbled senses, Snape breathed a giant sigh of relief and briefly forgot his concerns about his rapidly increasing usage of the yggdrasilsap.

Nevertheless, as he walked purposefully up the stairs to his bedroom to get dressed, Snape admitted to himself that it was time for him to stop using the sap again. He was no longer a newly grieving man desperate with raw loss. Nor was he the scared young wizard fearful of his future and filled with hate for everyone from those who had helped him to, most especially, himself. He had learnt the danger of the sap long ago. It had almost been like returning to his youth when he had found the bottle of yggdrasilsap sitting at the back of his cupboard. He had never forgotten how amazingly useful the sap had been in forcing himself to become inured to the horrors of his chosen life. Yet some tools could become too useful over time.

Despite his promise never again to be seduced by the deceptive benefits of the sap, Snape had been so desperate to retreat from the trap that he had built for himself by falling for the girl that he had finally reconsidered the usefulness of that old tool. As long as it was still an instrument under his own control, then he had decided to allow himself temporarily to use the sap. This was hardly the same as before. She was nothing like the woman who had unknowingly left her imprint on him so deep that his very heart was still infused with her. It ought not to have taken very long to rid himself of this preposterous infatuation, so it should have meant occasional use of the sap for perhaps two months at the most. It had now been four months.

Snape pulled open the door to his wardrobe and looked at his robes. The clarity of his sap-eased mind instantly told him which robes would convey the proper degrees of social superiority and disinterest. Snape quickly dressed himself and thought fleetingly of the musty smell in his rooms. He would have to speak to Rem about how often she allowed Wicket inside to clean. One glimpse into his mirror told him that he would need to tie back his hair. The simple black cord would do and he would naturally need his grandfather's ring. The sap was getting into full stride now and he was feeling ridiculously confident. No matter what Morag thought, Severus Snape did not intend to be outmanoeuvred by an O'Shaughnessy. His mother would hardly be impressed with his infatuation with the girl, but at least he could be certain that Morag would not get what she wanted. There was no good reason for him to agree.

Snape then pointed his finger at the empty fire grate, stepped into the raging yellow flames, and vanished.