Good day, patient readers. Severus and Morgan have been waiting for this for a long time, as have you. Enjoy this extra-long chapter and please REVIEW. Perhaps Snape can read minds, but I can't.
Enjoy - DN
The walls of Hogwarts, once more a home than his family home had been, surrounded him as the prison the Wizengamot had intended them to be. Despite his sentence, he hadn't considered himself truly confined, until now. Shopping or carousing in Hogsmeade he considered a waste of time (and he had few Galleons for that, should his opinion change). His focus on his work meant that any needs he had to travel would be centered on school-related goals, covered under the terms of his probation, with the appropriate supervision. Now, he had someplace he desperately wanted to be, for purposes purely personal, that would very shortly be outside the grounds of Hogwarts. Namely, any place where Morgan Hunter was.
As he watched her walk out of the classroom, he collapsed on the bench by a window decorated with purple hyacinth. The afternoon sun on his face and the fragrant breeze, bringing the scent of daffodils from the fields to his nose, only served to remind him of that day long ago when he'd lost Lily. He'd learned nothing of love in those nearly 20 years. Strategy, revenge, curses, poisons, evasion, concealment, yes. But nothing of value for his situation now.
He cursed every person or being he knew of. Merlin. His father, who taught him only the shame and humiliation of weakness. His mother, who taught him disgust of passivity. James Potter, who brought him the shame of obligation. Lucius Malfoy, lessons of the simplicity of manipulation of the desire for approval. Voldemort, the danger and vulnerability of love. Bellatrix Lestrange, the dangers of blind loyalty. Gilderoy Lockhart, who was apparently as much a charlatan in love advice as in Defence Against the Dark Arts and dueling. Even Dumbledore. Dumbledore and his insipid little "love has magic of its own" baloney. Love had brought him nothing but misery, and now a future even more empty that it had been before, for he knew now what he was missing, knew now what was possible, but out of his reach. He tasted acid and bile in his mouth as his stomach heaved, then swallowed it again, burning deep in his chest.
Her feet felt like she was wearing leaded shoes, heavy. She should be delighted to leave, should be skipping down the halls to freedom, to sunshine and warmth. She had considered this freedom very much at risk only hours before; now, freedom was granted with no strings attached. The only part heavier than her feet was her heart. Working together just now, so lovely. Never before have I had such a partnership, nor will I ever again. She wished she'd never come, that she had never known what she was now losing, even if it was never real in the first place. Her gamble on the farthest-flung school she could picture, her desire to escape the painful memories in the desert, had been a losing hand.
Sedona, her goal, seemed less inviting now than it had earlier in the week as she'd lain in silence, plotting her escape against her captors. The sun she pictured seemed a bit more harsh, less inviting. The desert seemed less an openness, waiting for her to fill it, than an empty place, stretching to the shimmering horizons, cactus upon cactus topped with deep crimson roses. The buzz of energy she knew she'd feel once her feet were on the ground no longer beckoned like a magnet; instead, she imagined it being more like an itch, needing perpetually to be scratched. Hogwarts was repellent, and now her intended refuge had been forever altered in her mind. There was no place to go to be right again, to feel balanced again, except the past. Which was gone, and which was false. But it had felt so true at one time.
He gritted his teeth, holding back the agony before it spilled from his lips. There was nothing left he could give, nothing left to be done. He watched her retreating form, walking more slowly than he'd ever seen her go, none of the jauntiness in her stride that typically amused him, or annoyed him if she were too close or he were in a testy mood. He'd taken that away from her. This witch that he loved, he'd hurt her, hurt her spirit. Yes, she was a magical force to be reckoned with, a powerful spell-caster. Her heart was vulnerable in a way that her body was not. Vulnerable to his actions, to his words. Hania had written that she had experienced disloyalty and was therefore very cautious in making friends, in trusting. He'd been the very picture of disloyalty, deserting her after Ames' threats and abandoning their research collaboration. No wonder she assumed the worst in him when presented with confusing and partial facts. She had forgiven him for his mental transgression, but now her forgiveness was at an end. Now she would carry this distrust in her heart for the rest of her life. No wizard would be able to get close to her now; she'd never allow it. She would isolate herself, insulate herself, both from pain and from healing, from joy. Isolation he knew well.
You must not allow this wonderful witch you love to carry with her the damage you have done to her heart so clear in her body. I will not allow this for Morgan Hunter. No one shall hurt her, not even me. But there is nothing you can do, the damage is already done.
He didn't the daemon to return to hear the words. He resumed his fuming curses. Damage to himself was tolerable. Even a lifetime future filled only with Potions and Hogwarts, though agony, he would live with. Imagining her doing the same was driving him closer to madness than he'd ever been before.
Blast you, Albus, and all your pitiful advice. "Open yourself, let others see the good in you." Worthless tripe to convince me to endure, rather than simply moving on the the Other World, as I've wanted. Even at the hour of my death, still forcing penance on me. Enough.
He'd done all he could, given all he had to give. There was nothing more to be done.
Almost nothing.
The revelation struck him like a bludger. Determination flowed over him like a landslide. No matter the result, he had to try. In the darkness by her bedside, worried she might never recover, he had pledged to do anything for her; now it was time to rise to that commitment, no matter his aversion. Anything.
He'd done many things in his life that ran counter to his own desires. Renouncing the Death Eaters, watching young fools making pitiful attempts at Potions, resisting hexing certain members of the Order of the Phoenix, ending Albus Dumbledore's life. Each was a challenge in its' own way. This would be a new level, would test perhaps and even deeper resistance.
She's just as likely to reject you as to forgive, once she sees. Possibly more likely. Yes, but there is nothing else left. No matter the outcome for me, she won't go through the rest of her life thinking the worst of me, the worst of all wizards. At least she will know the truth. Even if the truth drives her farther from me. I pledged to do anything. And I will.
Snape leapt from the bench and ran to the classroom door, gripping its frame to avoid spilling wholesale into the hall, hoping to gain from the ancient wood some strength that he lacked. His robes billowed around him.
"Morgan," he choked out, to her retreating form, "I will open my mind to you, if only you'll stay a bit longer."
She continued for two more steps then halted. Broken broomsticks, Severus Snape was nothing if not persistent! He couldn't be serious. She'd never had such an offer in her life. She remained, holding back her tears of frustration, heartbreak, and betrayal, grasping the handrail of the stairs to steady herself, to keep from simply falling down them in exhaustion. Why must he torture her so? The more she saw of him, the less she truly knew him. She knew him as Hypatia Alexander's ardent lover (or perhaps not); as Sybil Trelawney's devoted husband (or perhaps not); as the stern and inflexible Headmaster; as the caustic and demanding Potions Master; as a brilliant research colleague; as a (possibly former) Death Eater; as Harry's godfather; as her companion and admirer. So many possibilities, some good, others decidedly less so.
He'd had no use for her until today, had barely spoken to her in months. Whether or not he was in pursuit of Hypatia Alexander or married to Sybil Trelawney was irrelevant, she reminded herself. He hadn't wanted her beyond as a member of his teaching staff. Apparently he'd taken her continued presence for granted, assumed she would not leave except as it suited him. Now that she'd taken her destiny in her own hands, he was having a rather dramatic change of heart, his bargaining for her to remain increasingly and alarmingly desperate, not to mention personal in nature. This went way beyond a professional relationship.
Hunter turned and regarded Snape carefully. The look on his face she hadn't seen except after he'd collapsed in the alley in Hogsmeade, with Sybil. Agonized, desperate, a man near the edge of madness. Or perhaps over the edge. But he claimed they weren't married and he wasn't critically injured.
Was his offer to allow her open access to his mind genuine? There was only one way to know. In doing so, she would know how he felt, what he saw. This would answer so many questions, even questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers to, answers to questions she didn't know to ask. Maybe the true content of the formula for the antidote. Perhaps he was skilled enough to only show her what he wanted her to see, obscuring the truth though cloaked in openness. It would be invasive, no matter what.
She had on occasions fought her way inside another, particularly in her training, but this was not a technique one used on a peer. Not usually. She couldn't recall a time that someone had simply opened for her, allowed it willingly, without resistance, but with invitation. Like lending someone your wand, it simply wasn't done.
The silence in the corridor continued to gather as she weighed her options. He claimed her impressions were mistaken, that he had no interest in Hypatia Alexander, that Sybil Trelawney was not his wife. That he desired her, couldn't live without her, whatever that implied. She couldn't imagine learning something that would make her feel more miserable than she felt at this moment. The freedom she's hungered for was already disappointing. If this were an elaborate ruse, another among his catalogue of manipulations, a trick to lure her in for capture, she only barely cared. She would likely be too tired to resist now, but find an escape later, once she'd fully recovered, she told herself. A train for London left Hogsmeade twice a day; she'd have a chance another time, if she wasn't a captive. If she was, she wouldn't have been able to leave today. She had nothing, and therefore had nothing to lose. She set her heavy feet back towards the classroom.
As she approached warily, Snape's mind raced as it had never done before. Dumbledore had advised him to open himself, but to do so in this way meant not only would she see the good in him, she'd also see … other things. All the things he'd never told her about, or only implied without much detail, might come rising to the surface. She was surely as likely to find him repulsive as not, but he could not face a future without knowing he'd done everything possible to heal her, to prevent her having a lifetime of doubt in herself, a lifetime of keeping others at a distance. No doubt she would be as difficult to control within his mind as she'd been in the lab, in the infirmary, and in the forest. She never did what he expected. Especially today. Now she would poke about, find all the most difficult thoughts, make connections, and question everything she saw. To attempt to hide or obscure those thoughts would betray his pledge to her, drive her away in distrust. He pledged anything. So be it.
She entered the room, not with curiosity, but exhaustion written on her countenance. Not interest and eagerness, but resignation. She collapsed heavily at the desk nearest the door, her hand on her wand, unspeaking. She rested her head in her hands for a moment, then seemed to think the better of resting her eyes even for a moment. Her head snapped back up as her hand clenched her wand pocket.
Snape was dismayed, witnessing these signals of distrust. He'd been focused on her victory over the Scorpion Venom, but she was clearly not fully recovered. Instead, she felt defeated by him and worn down by this day. He strode to a desk across the room, far from the door, wondering how to begin this strangest of conversations.
"Morgan, I will open my mind to you, offer no resistance, shield nothing from you. Explore anything you might want. But first, please allow me to place a few protective spells around the room. I don't want any interference from anyone else who might happen along. I will be fully open."
She nodded silently, unsurprised at his request. She watched him cast his wand to all windows, walls, the ceiling and floor, putting up barriers to invasion. When he closed the door, he put no locking charm on it, only the barriers to mental invasion. She could easily leave. When he finished, he paused, placing his wand aside on the desk adjacent to hers before walking to one across the room. Unarmed again.
What did she hope to learn for this mental invasion? Would it bring her any sense of peace, or understanding, or only more pain? Her dread filled her like heat filled the desert in the summer. She raised her wand to her temple and uttered "Legilimens" and began.
Slowly she moved into his consciousness, more than a little worried about what she might find there. This was a strange event; going from several months of chilly professionalism and emotional distance, to invading thoughts and feelings. She found herself in darkness, which was not surprising to her. Then his emotional state hit her. Despite his calm exterior demeanor, sitting at a desk in a sunny classroom, his thoughts were a raging storm. He was thinking of her, leaving him. There were flashes of him alone in a grubby apothecary shop, her leaving on her trip to Beauxbatons, his kneeling beside her hospital bed at night, holding her inert hand to his cheek. Mixed in were images of another witch with red hair, rejecting him. Of a young girl with dark hair in braids, who was angry with him. Who were they?
She didn't want to see this, it was already too much. Layers of memories, dread of the future, images of hopelessness churned with other layers of hope and devotion. She needed to focus, to pull at only one thread. She moved towards the apothecary shop. This was composed partly of memories as an apprentice himself, then as an owner, but the other part was a future scene. She started with the past. He had used his talents skillfully as a young man, but he was no longer pleased with the purpose of the potions, which were often poisons. Who had requested them? Why had he complied with such requests? He lamented that past, but had pride in his ability to make such technically complex formulations. The future Potion shop was boring him senseless, with benign cosmetic potions being his stock-in-trade. Why would he give up teaching?
I can't continue without you. I can't subject students to a Headmaster or teacher who no longer cares about his work, can't damage their futures. They only get one chance at an education.
She moved away from the shop, back into the jumble of his thoughts. They were a bit less chaotic now, but still piled upon one another in waves. The two of them working together, their times in the Astronomy tower, some other, painful event in the Astronomy tower. But her being there helped, changed the way he felt being there. What had happened there?
Of course he knew she would dig into things he'd rather she didn't, but did she have to be so quick about it? He had so little time to prepare himself. He was surrounded by others, his wand arm outstretched, as an old wizard with a long beard fell.
I had to kill a friend, my mentor, the previous Headmaster of this school, Albus Dumbledore.
Her heart sank into her stomach. The worst of the rumors were true. He was a murderer.
She didn't know what to do, didn't know what to think. She readied herself for what he might do next, now that he'd revealed his true nature. He made poisons, killed the Headmaster. And this was only the beginning. She shifted in her seat, feeling the comforting wood of her wand, alert of any sudden movement on his part. The further threats never came, no wall of rage or hatred. She could only feel the heavy weight of remorse.
Why did you do those things? She wasn't sure why she'd even put the question out there. It didn't matter. He was a killer.
She knew the worst in him now. She was lost to him. Her accusations would come in a wave; his responses would sound weak and hollow. Mistakes all those years ago, still ruining his hopes. Twenty years gone by, more than half his life, and he would continue to pay. But he had pledged to tell her anything, everything. So he continued.
I joined the Death Eaters when I was young and thirsty for power and revenge against those who I thought had stolen someone I loved from me. Then I found that the Death Eaters would truly steal her, kill her even. Simply leaving the Death Eaters is impossible, so I needed another strategy. Albus saw some glimmer of worth in me and gave me an opportunity to save at least some part of my soul. I killed him because he asked me to. He knew he was dying and that his death, at my hands and witnessed by others, would seal the trust of Voldemort, the leader of the Death Eaters, securing my position with him, while keeping me here at the school to protect it as best I could. Killing him was the hardest thing I've ever done.
The witch with the red hair, the one you love, she was the one they killed.
Yes, Lily.
His thoughts once again became scattered with images of himself as a young boy with the red-haired witch, a fight they'd had, his anger and resentment, a silver doe patronus, Harry Potter.
Harry is her son, your godson.
Yes.
Why would she have chosen a Death Eater as the godfather for her son?
She didn't. He chose me, much later. Earlier this year, in fact. The godfather she'd chosen for him died before the war began.
Harry had chosen him?
Did Harry not know about your past?
There is no one who knows more about me than Harry, though that may change today.
He knew about Snape, but chose him anyway. She could not imagine what could possibly make a person overlook so much.
She went back, determined to observe, to simply allow his thoughts to churn, to see where they would lead naturally.
What came next was a jumble of images of her, starting together in the Astronomy tower, in the lab, in his office, her leaving for Hogsmeade, a walk by the lake. She needed to pick out a direction. She pulled at a thought that looked like the dungeons, seeking to understand more about how he felt about her. But where this thread led wasn't the dungeons, but some other place, deserted and destroyed.
Harry was bending over him, with a flaming pain in his neck spreading through his body as snake venom took its toll. Harry collecting his memories as they leaked out, followed by a feeling of being at peace, of release, of the closing in around her of green clouds.
Then she was underwater. Snape was swimming, holding his breath for an incredibly long time. His body was covered in scars and bruises, his nose broken and swollen. He felt like he was being beaten, in agony, as a merperson spread mud on the scars. She felt his resignation to some of this pain, his remorse, atonement. At others, anger and rage. She could see the faces of students being hurt by someone, not by Snape, but he couldn't stop it, though he badly wanted to. With each blow, he diverted as much of their pain to himself as he could, as mercy to counteract the effects of this cruel deputy Headmaster. Then he was swimming upwards, with a young mergirl. With long dark hair and dark eyes; who looked oddly familiar. Hunter couldn't place her.
The scene faded, and he was in the hospital, Poppy was saying he had died and come back somehow.
You died in the war?
Yes.
The next question fell from her consciousness before she could stop it. What was it like?
I did not know if Voldemort was defeated or not, if I had saved Harry. I felt as though my whole life had been a waste.
The pain he felt was too much. She asked no more.
He'd been killed by the Death Eaters in the end, then healed in some way. During the war, he had been unable to stop the punishment of students, but was able to take their pain to himself, so that they would at least survive. The healing had been a second torture for him, the pain as much in release as it had been to receive. He'd spent years disguised as a true Death Eater, with almost no one he could reveal his true nature to. No wonder he was so skilled at deception and manipulation.
She drew back and followed a different thread. Now he was in his private chamber, which she had never seen. It was odd that it had been too invasive to visit him in his room even when they were seeing each other socially, and that the first time she saw it was in this most intimate way. Trelawney was there, not as a romantic partner, but as a counselor. She was talking about her vision of his future and a little girl. She felt his feelings of emptiness about his future, his resentment for having lived, evolving to his yearning for the girl to be real. The mist grew and the scene changed.
He was striding alone through empty dungeons, unexpectedly hearing someone and following the sound. He opened the door forcefully, and there was the little girl, her back to him. His heart skipping a beat, anticipation. He was to meet her at last. Was she to be a student here? He was confused for a moment, and then she turned. It was her, Morgan Hunter. He was temporarily stunned, the scent of lavender and rosemary clouding his other senses. He was not sure if he was in a dream state or reality, then harshly snapped back to reality. Now he was walking away, his hands shaking, wondering if she was his future, then his self-derision. How could he possibly imagine that the famous Morgan Hunter would take an interest in a poor and taciturn schoolmaster?
She followed this thread further into the future, to the beginning of the school year. When the students returned, the first night. As he strode up the main aisle of the Great Hall, she felt not the desire to humiliate and intimidate, but his humility at how many had returned, his pride in their strength to return to a place which held, for many, terrible memories, some of them terrible memories of him; his determination to make Hogwarts a place of excellence, to live up to the trust given to him as Headmaster. To heal them. She felt a jumble of thoughts, his sadness at the missing students, naming the student who should be at each empty seat at house tables; missing teachers; his being nearly the only one among his own Hogwarts classmates still living. Seeing Harry Potter return, feeling some combination of pride, relief, and yearning for Harry's mother, all rolled together in a jumble that twisted his stomach. He realized too late that he had lectured for too long; his jumbled stomach didn't care for a meal, but the students' did.
That scene faded, and it was the two of them, working on their research proposal. His pleasure in setting his mind to work at something other than evasion and battle. His surprise that her approach was so similar to his own.
You underestimated me.
Many times, and always to my own detriment.
She smiled weakly to herself, perhaps her first for today. Then reminded herself of whose mind she was in, and to be wary. Now they were in the lab. He wasn't sure if he should share his ideas about temperament with her, so he wrote it, already knowing she would read it, particularly if he read her notes first. His relief that she, a world-class Potion-maker, both understood the idea and felt it worthy of further pursuit. The beating of his heart, watching her work. The hope building, change being possible.
Then, walking to the forest.
I don't want to see this, please, it's too much, she pleaded.
These are my thoughts, not yours. You are free to withdraw anytime, but I would ask you to be gentle as you exit and not inflict on me a migraine again.
She felt a smug smile again, despite her intention to resist. Sorry.
I deserved it, and worse, but I can't say I'd like to repeat it.
The forest. Forbidden to students, and dangerous to most, but merely a playground for Severus Snape. She felt awash in the full range of his senses in a way the other threads of thoughts and memories lacked. He could smell the dirt yielding the best plants, hear the smallest breezes, feel the power of the earth through his feet. His vision in the night was incredible, almost like daylight, seeing even the smallest changes in color or texture. The night brought out his intensity, with a full moon on the solstice, and he was driven to collect every possible specimen that he could, imagining the power of the resultant products. Images of the preparation, followed by the use of the Potion by a student or the staff, filled him with pride.
Then he turned, hearing his name, sounding to him like the rustle of silk, the vibrations of his intensity suddenly focused sharply at her. All other sensations died away, leaving him only that sound as his heartbeat increased. He nearly dropped his case. His struggle to restrain himself, not to run towards her, but walk, revealing nothing of this inner storm on his surface. Now the night breezes were covered by the rush of blood through his ears, the only smell her lavender and rosemary perfume, his feet not even feeling the ground as he was drawn to her, the crashing wave of electricity when she took his hand, the explosion of his mind when their lips touched. The cursed wave of coldness when he saw the bluebells, as his growing intensity dissipated, replaced with disappointment and resignation. His determination that she should not embarrass herself further on his account, taking her to Madame Pomfrey. Admonishing himself for his lack of foresight.
She expected to feel his rage, followed by his return to the forest. But instead, she felt inspiration, responsibility, a sense of urgency and protection. The forest seemed so much brighter than she remembered it. When he stopped, he was smelling, but not the bluebells. Lavender and rosemary.
You knew I was there.
Yes.
Why didn't you call me out?
You seemed to want to be private about this. And I didn't want you to throw yourself at me again.
That's a lie.
Yes, I would have given almost anything to relive that moment.
Morgan allowed that warm thought to brush across her, then she brushed it away. She was allowing herself to be drawn in, just what she was determined to resist.
Why am I not feeling your emotions with this memory? You said you'd be completely open, she accused.
You are.
But you were angry when you ripped up the bluebells. I am not feeling your anger. What else are you hiding?
I am hiding nothing. I wasn't angry.
You weren't? You destroyed every bluebell in sight!
I was harvesting them. I recognized that they were particularly potent, obviously, so I returned to take more.
Why? I thought they were used mostly by parents and … disreputable witches and wizards.
Am I not a disreputable wizard? You might think so if you read the Daily Prophet.
You took me to see Madame Pomfrey, even though you knew I would hate you for it.
I would have hated myself more if I had taken advantage of you. It occurred to me that I might protect some students by exposing them a little at a time, in case their parents had not already done so.
Morgan felt herself softening, remembering the event.
At the Halloween Ball.
It seemed like an appropriate time. However, combined with your Boldness Charm, I found the need to tone things down a bit.
She smiled inwardly, remembering the effectiveness of his pranks. Making students vomit seems a bit much.
You weren't the only one laughing at the time, as I recall. Shall we stop now, Dr. Hunter? Are you getting tired?
Not a bit. Continue.
His lonely walk back from the forest to his apartment, the silence and stillness closing in.
The next morning at breakfast, stunned by the photo. His confusion at first, not recognizing the man in the picture, combined with enjoyment of the look on her face. Followed by the crushing awareness that every student in the Great Hall, as well as the staff and readership of this flagship publication of the Witch and Wizarding world had seen this. Now she knew what his anger felt like and it was fierce. The fire of his temper made real, softened slightly by regret that he hadn't taken a more temperate approach, at least for the owls' sake.
This scene faded to one with Harry Potter, his deep pride that Harry had asked him to be his godfather, commingled with his frustration that Harry didn't have the sense to choose someone with better prospects and shame that he had so little to offer those that he cared about.
Why was it difficult for you to admit that you care about Harry Potter? Because he is Lily's son?
Snape paused. Harry and I have a long history with one another. Yes, Lily is his mother, and that brings her to my mind every time I look at him. I spent years bitter at the loss of his mother, both her friendship with me and her life. That bitterness spread to him. I cultivated my enmity toward him partly as a natural habit, partly to protect him from becoming a pawn to those who wanted to break him during the war.
It isn't easy to give up habits, even if circumstances change.
Yes.
Her own circumstances were changing. She felt doubt creeping in, doubt on top of doubt. He was a former Death Eater, he hadn't denied it. He had killed, directly and probably indirectly with his Potions. He still had within him a good measure of anger, but also sadness, self-doubt, and regret. Perhaps he was a different wizard now.
With his vision of Harry, she felt his determination to overcome his own lack of a decent father, as well as the understanding that the relationship would change dramatically over time, that Harry's school days were nearly at an end. At the Binding, the acceptance of some of Harry's spirit, and the letting go of some of his own.
There were scenes of classes, of meals, of work. She saw a vision of herself, walking out the Hogsmeade bridge, on her way to Beauxbatons. She felt his longing and emptiness, which he filled with work, grading papers, dictating school communications, signing college applications, throwing himself into work to avoid the spectre of self-pity. His anticipation of her return. She was walking down a long hall, and again, his could see the little mergirl in her, until she drew closer. His longing to hold her.
You missed me, even then?
Yes.
Then the Halloween Ball. The extract of Midnight Bluebells scattered in the bushes, now combined with her Boldness Charm. His smug delight in pranking the students in the garden almost made her laugh all over again. His night vision and senses alert, taking in the scent of the fall, the gardens, the anxiety of students. His hope that she would come, relief that she did, and his restraint in not simply attacking her when she approached. His joy in her forgiveness. After their kiss, his feeling delighted, confused, and anxious, knowing how much he desperately wanted to be with her, but also knowing he had so little to offer, between his probation and poverty. His wanting her to understand these facts, so she wouldn't be surprised or disappointed later.
Scenes of their work together passed, his pleasure in their walks and meals, their times spent alone together. But every thread that drew them closer was always paired with the foretaste of disaster, knowing everything would unravel, that she would be gone by the end of the year, that he couldn't afford to pay her next year, that he was no kind of marriage prospect.
No thoughts of Sybil, she noted. Not one.
Then Janiss, his suspicion giving way to understanding as the relationships played themselves out. Finding the chess game here much easier to play than that of her alone. Anger that he might be played for a fool equally matched with fear. Seeing a way out that would conserve his pride. His puzzlement at her reaction, followed by the desolation of loneliness.
The missing Scorpion Venom, his rapid-fire connection to a threat to her from Ethinian and a risk to Janiss as collateral damage. His desire to protect his student, even one who had betrayed him.
In the quiet of the lab, she sat quietly, trying to make sense of what she knew, but remained inside his mind. He hadn't left her because he didn't want her; quite the contrary, he wanted her very much, but felt no hope that she might actually love him in return. The machinations of protecting her fortune from Ethinian explaining for him the otherwise unexplainable, her desire for him.
Would you like to stop?
No, I want to see when you invaded me.
That's too embarrassing, he murmured, echoing her own words.
Show me, she commanded.
She was standing next to him at breakfast. He was torn, frustrated by his own words, and yet unsure of her. The Daily Prophet was only worth the bottom of a birdcage, and yet the words brought forth the uncertainty of her past. He didn't want to put himself in a vulnerable position if she was only overtaken by bluebells, if she was only after his nonexistent fortune. Or worse, to show his own feelings before he was sure about hers. Best to get to over with now, rather than draw it out. I am the finest Legilimens of my time.
Really.
I told you it was embarrassing, he added heatedly.
His slow intrusion, his standing idly by, simply allowing her thoughts to proceed. She smiled to herself, remembering feeling his soft shuffling approach, like a child hiding behind curtains with his feet sticking out. But she wasn't laughing at the time, she was angry, but she had kept that deep inside, setting up her mental trap. He knew it was a trap as soon as the door opened, knew that he was caught, but still desperately hoped for some kind of miracle that would let him escape unseen. Her great push, followed by the blinding pain.
I didn't know I hurt you that much. I didn't even know I could.
He didn't need to reply, as she now felt his shame, not at all about being caught nor about not being the world's best and most stealthy Legilimens, but about his assault on her, his lack of honor. His desire to go to her at once and his realization that she wouldn't welcome him for any reason at that moment. That her need for time and being apart was greater than his need to be with her.
Now scenes of their time apart. His wrapping himself in the cloak of professionalism, restraint, combined with careful observation of her whenever he could. His dreams, sometimes about her, sometimes about the little girl, waking no more rested than when he fell asleep. His thoughts of suicide, his elaborate plan to provide for everyone he cared about, someone to fill every role. McGonegal as Headmaster, Sinistra as Deputy and head of Slytherin House. Bill Weasley as a godfather to Harry. Hypatia Alexander as the new Potions Master, assuming she would want to leave this cold and dark place at her first chance.
His fevered work in the dungeons, during every waking moment outside of class and meals. Reading, studying, experimenting, drawing together everything they had worked on, determination persisting in the face of some many failures, finally realizing the necessary ingredient. Blood, but not just any blood. The blood of a lover. He hoped his would be enough. Bleeding himself, over and over, until the Potion had enough power.
Your blood. That was what was missing, the final step.
Yes.
But the amount needed would be too much.
Yes.
She saw him, alone by his fireplace, entranced by the flames, planning his exit. Drained, only barely still living, each role filled. Cursing himself, thinking of all the times he fought so hard for life, only to find himself wishing for death now that he had been victorious.
Shocking icy water, Harry, the little girl, and Trelawney. She had seen this part, seen them. It wasn't a romantic embrace, but one of survival.
Morgan was aghast. He'd wanted to end his life, but only after he'd drained himself out, for her survival and for Janiss's, if they needed the antidote. Harry had nearly lost his life saving him. He had seen Sinistra because he needed a Head of House, Hypatia as a teacher. Her mind spun, trying to make sense of all this.
Now, in his dungeon classroom, Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode hanging around after class. Pansy attempting to kiss Snape, a copycat of Janiss, but he was ready for her. The photo showed her trying and his resistance and putting forth the start of a Shield Charm. Her blackmail threat. His giving her time to say more about why she would do so, and seeing an opportunity to end her harassment of him, while doing a good turn to a friend. She saw Pansy and Millicent walk out, heard them talking about a Binding, but she meant her own Binding to Draco Malfoy. Morgan sighed.
You can stop any time. I'll allow you in again, if you'd rather rest. His tone was soft.
No, I need to see this.
She felt his weakness and fatigue, as he bled himself again, making another batch of the antidote. He asked Trelawney to come. He needed supervision according to his probation, and she was the staff member he most trusted, after her visions about the little girl and his future. The Malfoy Manor, and the discomfort of visiting a friend that you'd both deceived and honored. The tacit understanding between people who know clearly about doing what must be done to survive in a complicated world. The son, the trickery with poor Pansy
Poor Pansy, he snorted. She knew exactly what she was doing.
But she's still a child, still your student, in your House, even.
Perhaps.
The celebration of getting rid of Pansy on her own accord, probably forever off Draco's back, of Snape honoring yet again the Unbreakable Vow to Draco, the celebration of survival itself.
I didn't know you were a mixologist.
Isn't every Potion-master?
Now, back in the alley, seeing the broken umbrella, knowing there was a problem, suspecting who would be in danger. Waiting in Hogsmeade. Witnessing Ethinian poisoning her. Trying to save her, being too weak, cursing himself. Seeing her fall. The antidote, carried everywhere, knowing there could be trouble at any time. Sibyl, give it to her, all of it, as quickly as you can. No, No, No, Not again. Too late, again. And his hex too poorly done to kill me. Still a life sentence.
HIs overwhelming relief that she wasn't dead, his hope for her recovery. Feeling how empty he was without her. His pledge to do anything for her, no matter what the future might hold. The note from Parse Winder.
You weren't angry with me?
I was angry with Parse, but certainly not with you. Why would I be?
Because you...because…
I don't possess you, I don't own you. You broke no promise. But I also didn't admit defeat, though Parse would be quite a catch.
He's a blowhard.
A very handsome, well-placed, and wealthy blowhard.
If you think that matters to me, you know very little.
Her shocking recovery, then panic rising with the realization of what was to happen that day. His misery in having to fulfill his promise to Hypatia Alexander, but now in front of her. The duel, his barely even trying, then his overwhelming need to reach her, to tell her.
She withdrew from his mind, back to the room. Still the same, two people, two chairs. A warm afternoon breeze. But everything changed.
Her mind was working, connections and implications piling up like snow against the dungeon windows in a blizzard. She worked clarify what she'd seen, to see things this new light. Everything she had believed was wrong about him. Or was it? At one time, she had believed him to be honorable, to be true. He had disarmed for her, twice. Opened his mind, shown her everything she had wanted to see, and more. Even the bad parts, the horrible parts. There was so much more to him than that, though.
Severus Snape sat silently in the classroom, feeling her withdrawal. She said nothing now. What could she say? She now knew he was a murderer, a coward, as well as poor and imprisoned. At least she also knew that he loved her, admired her, that he had meant only to protect her, that his aims of late, even if difficult to understand, had been intended for her benefit. Of course she would leave him, that wasn't in question. Knowing his past as she did now, what else would be possible? But perhaps she would not think every wizard was a cad. Perhaps she would not spend the rest of her years isolating behind her own barriers.
He raised his eyes to hers. She regarded him openly in her direct fashion. "Severus."
He said nothing. What would she say? That she appreciated his being open with her, appreciated the job offer, but she needed to move on. The damage done.
"Severus, I'll open my mind."
"Dr. Hunter…,"he began, raising his hands in protest, then putting them down again, so as not to threaten her with them.
"Please don't be formal, not now," she begged.
He paused, meeting her gaze. At last, he began again. "Morgan, there is no obligation. We can stop now."
"No, I want to. I want you to see what I see."
He hesitated. What would she show him? The hurt she had suffered because of him? Her misery here in the Highlands? "Prepare yourself for the finest Legilimens of the age."
She laughed out loud while he smiled, surprised and confused at her reaction. "I think I am prepared."
"Yes, I supposed that's so."
He hesitated just the same, still embarrassed by his previous invasion. At last, he moved ahead and eased in, so as to reduce the onslaught of her anger and pain. It was the forest again.
I thought this was too embarrassing. You needn't relive it again.
I relive this almost every night.
Oh. Oh?
There she was, walking with him in the night in the forest. It was dark to her, as he expected it would be. He could feel her excitement, but was surprised that she was enjoying being with him as much as hearing about the various plants, insects, and woods and their properties. In the moonlight, there was something so strange about him. He didn't look at all like himself.
Why do I look like that? So unlike how I really look?
That's how auras look.
No, I mean...aura? I'll ask about that later. No, I mean, I don't look like that.
How?
Handsome, he intoned hesitantly.
But you are.
He snorted.
Severus Snape, tell me you aren't fishing for compliments.
Hardly. He sneered dismissively.
She had a dawning. The time underwater. You were covered in scars, your nose was broken. You were being healed, restored.
Only my bones and flesh.
You don't know what you look like now, you only know what you used to look like. In your room, when I saw you with Trelawney, there's no mirror.
I have no need of one.
I'll find one for you.
Back to the forest. Her eyes following him, admiring. Her fascination and desire. The difficulty of taking that first step to break the barrier of professionalism, of not knowing how he'd react, but steeling herself for the task. Feeling the kiss, from her side, which was surprisingly similar to his own experience. Electric.
Her misunderstanding of why he was taking her back to the castle.
You thought I was taking you to my apartment? He choked in disbelief.
I was hopeful… He could feel her blush.
The hospital wing and her fear and desperation about the Amoreverselixir. Taking it, feeling it, but not feeling any different. Disappointment that he apparently didn't feel the same way. Her stealthy following him back to the forest, despite the fact that it was so dark, having trouble keeping up with him and being afraid she'd get lost in the darkness. Her sadness that he was ripping up the bluebells, thinking he was angry and bitter. Her resisting the urge to go to him, thinking he would only take her back to Madame Pomfrey for more potion.
What else do you want to see?
The desert.
Why?
Because I will never see it, except through you.
She showed him a day that was one of her favorites. It was in the afternoon in August, as hot and as dry as the desert ever is. She was facing southwest, into the blaze of the sun, feeling the energy from the dirt hot through her beaded leather shoes, following the scent of the desert flowers and plants to gather ingredients. Feeling the vibrations of the crystals. Harvesting Scorpion Venom.
You harvest it yourself?
You harvest all your own ingredients. Well, most of them.
Not Scorpion Venom.
Watching the sun set, feeling the heat fade and the chill coming on through her light blue cotton robe. Listening for the many desert creatures who were more active at night and taking a few. Watching the stars come up. Someone approaching.
You can stop here, I have no desire to pry.
This was one of the best days of my life.
It was Phillipus. She knew by the sounds of his footsteps, could feel his energy through the ground. She felt his hands slide around her waist, her spirit relaxing into his embrace. He pointed where she looked. "Saturn is rising in Orion, the hunter." She couldn't see Saturn, but admired his sharp vision. She turned to look at him, glowing blue in the darkness.
You had taken Auralite that day, too, I take it?
He could feel her hesitation, a long pause. No.
Why does he glow that way?
More hesitation. It's his aura. He was always blue, always true and honorable. That's what I loved about him. So few people are.
You don't need a potion? You see this all the time?
Yes. It's what drew me to you. You are blue, most of the time, and at the strangest times.
The strangest times?
When I think you are being deceptive and should be green, you are still blue, though sometimes a little bluish-green. When the students think you are angry, you are still blue. They turn yellow, but you are blue, because you are actually concerned for their future. When you were harvesting the bluebells, I thought you'd be an angry red, but still you were blue. I knew you didn't really mean what you were saying when you accused me of wanting your fortune, because there you were greenish-blue, not red-orange. And with Parse and the investigation, even though I knew for certain that you were lying, still there was blue mixed with the green. It made me doubt myself, make me doubt everything. I thought I'd lost my sight, that I was losing my mind. And today, with Hypatia. Your ardent words of love, your fearful looks, and yet still, blue, with just a little green around the edges. Not purple, not red, not yellow. When you fell on the Quidditch pitch, still no fear, even though it looked like you might die in front of us all.
What is it like, to see people this way?
Horrible, for the most part. I know when people are lying, but not the truth. And everyone lies, even your friends. I know when people are afraid, but not what they fear. The only thing worse is thinking I could still see the aura, but that it didn't mean what I thought it should. I thought I was going crazy.
I haven't met a witch who can see this before, never even read about it.
There are a few of us and we keep it very secret. Governments and criminals take too great an interest in witches like me, and it never ends well for us.
Did Ames know and that's why he disliked you, because you could see his deception?
Ethinian would have hated me no matter what. His family descends from witches and wizards who came to the New World on the Mayflower. They consider their Magic to be superior to native Magic. When Phillipus came to Sedona and we fell in love, Ethinian believed their parents would disown him and leave the family fortune to him alone. They didn't like me, but they could see that our love was real. Ethinian considered me a thief of what was rightfully his. When Phillipus' mines did well, he was even more angry and jealous because he knew I was the key. I can feel the energy from the crystals, so I knew if a mine would yield trash or treasure before we invested in them. Phillipus invited Ethinian to go into business with him, but he wouldn't do it so long as I was an equal partner.
They returned to the scene in the desert. The feeling she had, of being so comfortable with another person, so sure. He envied her, having never felt that way in his life. Even with Lily, he had never known how she really felt, had never felt at ease. Only desire, disappointment, shame, humiliation, and resentment of James.
The stars of the desert were amazing, filling the broad sky, more dense than he'd ever seen without a telescope. He rested his mind in hers. wishing for all the world that he could give her that feeling of certainty. Wishing that he could share in that feeling for her.
The scene changed to breakfast in the Great Hall. She was thinking of him, he was only a few seats away, but she kept her eyes on her porridge.
I am now officially sick of porridge and pumpkin juice. Don't you Brits ever have anything else for breakfast?
We do now that we have a better budget for food. You can thank yourself for that.
She knew he was invading her right away.
Please, this really is embarrassing.
Don't leave yet.
He obliged, feeling sick to relive one of his own worst moments. Her whole mindscape suddenly turned blue-green, suffused with his aura. Her anger and desire to shame him.
I didn't stand a chance.
No one does with witches who see auras. You underestimated me.
Slowly, I am learning not to do that.
Now she switched the Halloween Ball, nervous, hoping she was dressed well and looking her best (You were stunning, breath-taking.). Talking with the other witches, enjoying their company and conviviality. He admired her easy relations with the other members of the staff, something he had never cultivated. She noted his exit and followed stealthily behind. Laughing at his games with the students. Then approaching, her every nerve alert. His blue aura, like Phillipus. Her determination that he should never invade her mind again, but being willing to forgive. The kisses in the garden, the healing power of her forgiveness, her relaxing into his embrace. No evidence of trickery, no trace of bluebells or potions. No thoughts of fortunes to be kept or gained. Only pleasure in him.
Real.