By Fire, From Ash

by genegonewilder

Young adult Severus is finding it difficult to adjust to life post-war, in part due to the fact that the rumors about his Death Eater status seem to have spread far and wide, but also because his own self-loathing outweighs anything anyone could throw at him. With his new teaching position at Hogwarts, he hopes to just move on, but a woman stands as a blazing reminder of his past.

13. Cessante Ratione

"You're everything you need and so you fight
You take them on your own until you die
The wisdom in your breath comes much too late
And everyone you see just gets a face
In time the words will come they say with faith
But everything you see just turns you gray

You're everything you need but still suspicion holds you tight"

B.R.M.C. - Still Suspicion Holds You Tight

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Chapter 13 – Cessante Ratione

It had been better to burn slowly than it was to drown.

The gradual and quiet flame, steady as no more than a candle imposing its eye upon the darkness, was nothing like the oppressive torrent that consumed him soon after waking up. Evidently the potion that had saved him had worn off, and what was meant to be healing him had much less in it to make him comfortable.

As promised, however, the day carried on with a barrage of questions fired at his hospital wing bedside. Freya herself turned up alongside Dumbledore, playing off very well as if she hadn't already spent plenty of time there last night, though she didn't have anything to add to the headmaster's slew of inquiries. It seemed as if she should have been the person answering questions, as he had nothing more of value to offer. In the end, unfortunately, they all three wound up back at the same dead-end as the previous night. He didn't have much energy to care at the time, though, his injuries and the medicines for them putting him in such a cranky state that the headmaster concluded by excusing himself after getting nothing but a snappy, slurred reply, leaving Severus to fall back asleep almost as soon as Freya's worried face over her shoulder had disappeared once more.

It was evening by the time he had awoke again, not remembering having fallen asleep and feeling somehow even worse than before. However, he had been able to sit up straight as an arrow in bed with only a single sharp, dizzying few moments of regret this time (and a little leeway on what constituted 'straight').

It had been then that he had enacted his devised-on-the-spot plan to relocate himself back to his own chambers, packing himself up, announcing he was leaving to Madam Pomfrey, and marching out of the hospital wing doors before she could get a single word of sense in. The stairs had given him some trouble, having had to clutch the railing to avoid falling face first down them. He had been partially aware, through the haze of his fever and determination, that Professor Flitwick had spotted him and had asked some buzzing question at some point. But finally, he had managed to get himself back to his own bedchamber in one piece—where he had immediately caught an earful of more incessant noise as Freya had let herself in with a pop, apparently having found out about his change in location quicker than he could have anticipated.

At least it had felt quick, though he hadn't been sure how much time had passed after he'd collapsed sideways onto his bed and not moved so much as an eyelid to question the additional presence in his room. The ranting had eventually ceased, and then all had gone quiet again, with only an odd, distant feeling that his head was having the pain smoothed out of it, like a warm cloth diligently buffing a stone statue, except the gentle tickle of his disturbed hair felt light and feather soft. It had been enough for him to fully let his consciousness rest for the second time that day, the recuperation feeling every bit as necessary.

His scheduled days of recovery wore on the same; in and out of fever, between snippets of song that he could never seem to remember the tune to when awake, and rare appearances where he made sure to drag himself out of bed as proof that he was not in fact dead nor dying, so his job position needn't be refilled—no matter how much more fun Slughorn might be.

Eventually, the stand-in Potion's master himself came to visit his office, this time giving the small, dimly lit space a much less enthusiastic glance around with wary eyes before settling into one of the chairs by the fire, his shifting legs giving away his dislike of the change in comfort of the piece.

If Severus at full health had qualified as a brick wall to Slughorn's usual talks, he felt more like an ancient granite monument as he was talked at in the same incessant, hard to follow manner, undercut this time with worried smiles in the direction of his former pupil's wavering posture despite being firmly melted into his own armchair. Slughorn kept asking if he was feeling quite right, saying that he had overseen the initial phase of administered remedies himself, but his continued repetition was only earning him more and more annoyed responses until, finally, Slughorn stopped fooling around with the pretense of his babbling about how grand it was to be teaching again for a spell to instead inquire further into what he seemed truly curious about.

"Taking a while to mend fully, are you?" he asked more casually than his earlier attempts. He cleared his throat and gazed as if absentmindedly to the fire. "Really should have transferred you to St Mungos. You know, part of me wonders if whatever that woman gave you didn't have some ill complication with everything else you were getting down that night—antidotes and whatnot..."

Even in his feverish haze, Severus's eyes flicked up. He didn't need to have his full wits about him to recognize the greedy glint his mentor was prone to giving off, as if there was a whole goose basted and roasting on the fire that Severus might have missed. He remained quiet for now as Slughorn went on, the same air of casualness to his voice.

"Not saying she would have intentionally—no, no—but, to be frank, I was there as she fixed up whatever it was that she gave you, and, well... if that was meant to be a Fire Protection Potion, I dare say I didn't see the usual ingredients..." His small eyes in his large face popped back to Severus for a second and then quickly back to the fire as he was met with continued stony silence. "Ah, well... Hrm…" Like a captain of a sailboat, he shifted in his chair and seemed to take the tide of his charm with it. "You know, I asked Dumbledore the first time I saw that bird in his office—since he was so well known for his discoveries with dragon's blood, and his work with Nicholas Flamel—I asked him if... Well, what… what knowledge he had to share about the magnificent species of phoenixes."

"Allow me," Severus said, speaking for the first time, "to hazard a guess... He gave you access to his full encyclopedia containing every last detail on the subject?"

"Oh, yes, yes of course—you know good old Dumbledore well!" Slughorn said with a laugh that sounded just a bit too tickled, his grin a bit too tight at the corners so that his teeth looked bared. "Not only did he divert the conversation before I could notice—got me talking about one of my students who had just been promoted to head of his department—Albert Hitchings it was, I think..."

He looked on the verge of getting side tracked talking about his own achievements, waning Severus' thin patience, but then seemed to gather himself to a stronger curiosity.

"Well, it wasn't just that," Slughorn went on, "but I swear the only book with any reference to phoenix study vanished from the library after that. Ah, but he couldn't take away what I had already read..."

Carefully, for the first time that evening, Severus sat up straighter in his chair.

—

"...A cure-all, meant to heal one's very soul, supposedly. A conundrum, because to take a phoenix's blood would surely damage one's soul and most probably muddy the magical properties of it. But to be given it willingly, one must be pure enough of soul to have gained a phoenix's trust, and therefore wouldn't have need—"

The steadily increasing groan from behind him stopped Severus's retelling and he turned, anticipatory smirk already in place, to see Freya leaning all the way back in his desk chair, eyes to the ceiling, looking as if she was perhaps being tortured.

"Have I ever mentioned," she said with thick disgust, "how much I hate you lot?"

Still grinning, he turned back to his cauldron where his current step had nearly been interrupted by the need to satisfy why he had been recanting in such great detail what Slughorn had told him previously. Her reaction had indeed been worth having to endure the tale himself.

"No, I don't believe you have," he said lightly.

"Well then, allow me: you're all so obsessed with your own mortality you'd think you haven't already got a perfectly good life to live, you walk around as if your bones are made of glass and your vitals are on your outsides," her voice grew in strength as she went on, while he calmly flipped the page of his potion's notes, "and you've got incredible need to fix things which aren't broke in the first place! Namely, that you're going to die eventually and you should just get over it."

"And you don't feel that's the slightest bit unfair coming from you, do you?"

"I'll show you unfair," she grumbled. Another quick glance over his shoulder revealed that she did in fact have quite the unfair advantage of needing only to finish the snap she was gesturing at him, while on the other hand, though he was fairly certain it could still do considerable damage to someone, he had doubts that the multi-purpose knife she had given him for Christmas would have been as quick—especially as he was busy using its tiny paring option.

He must have been finally looking as better as he felt if she was open to making threats against him. It was a wonder what fever-forced sleep could do for a person. He wasn't about to go eating any hot soup or taking shots of Firewhisky, but he was at least able to stand upright without feeling as if he were internally cracking dried cement. Being lucid enough to care for himself (and a healthy round of turning the stairs to his bedchamber into a slide whenever she tried to get in to help) had done well to prop his self-esteem back up, too.

After doing no more than raise his brows at her empty threat, he turned back to his cauldron, catching as he did so a glimpse of her dropping her hand and edging over the side of the chair for a peek.

"Finished yet? What is it you're making?"

His response came delayed as he kept his suddenly stiff back to her. "Infidelcidem..."

Hearing the desk chair squeak in abandonment, he steeled his patience for what he knew was coming, what he had been preparing for since the first night in the hospital wing. He pointed casually to his propped-up page of notes when she stepped up beside him to inspect his station.

He stated the written title for her: "Betrayer's Bane." Then, to fill in more than what the long list of instructions had to offer, he explained further. "It's an... infamous blend of poison, even usually written with its own little rhyme. 'Buried beneath an ashen tree...'" His tone twisted with sardonic distaste, not bothering to finish the rest. He thought it was more than a bit trite, personally. Any melodramatic child could be pulled in by the allure of the dark history behind it and think themselves impressive for using a poison that had killed dozens of others through the ages with no original thought of their own. "It's meant to send a message as it kills you: betrayer, disloyal, unfaithful. Whatever you did to the poisoner, you're meant to be buried alive for your crime, the roots set into you bodily, so that you are trapped in a suffocating death with just enough time to think on why."

He held his composure, watching from the corner of his eye for the realization to sink into her already comically aghast face as she stared at the page of ingredients in horrified thought. Abruptly, her eyes snapped to his so fast—then back to the potion titled on the paper—and then once more back to him, that he found it a wonder her hair didn't whip him in the arm.

"That's not—this—this is the poison? You've done up a pot of the thing that almost killed you?"

He gave a short nod.

"Why?" she asked in complete exasperation. "For fond reminiscence? Give it another go?"

"No," he said quietly, as though to have his words go unnoticed, "I did not actually complete it... as I thought finishing the tenth step might be a bit..." He watched her attention snap back to the list to check where he had indicated. "...Frowned upon inside the castle."

Her mouth slowly pursed to a thin line as she continued to read the page, glancing up at him only once her eyes had narrowed to slits. "Wise choice," she said, and then let out a sigh that changed her tone. "But, still..."

His eyes followed hers, back to the useless sludgy contents he had concocted that were not giving off the appropriate single stream of branching smoke as they should, had they been properly completed on time. He would have waved his wand to disappear them had he not been waiting in statuesque form for her reaction, unwilling to twitch a muscle in the silence.

"You had this all sorted out by the time you woke up in the hospital wing, didn't you?" she asked, a wry grin threatening to form seemingly despite herself. At his silent sideways glance, a short laugh escaped her that he couldn't discern was more impressed or disbelieving. "Love to see what you'd have to say at a wine tasting..."

"I would rather pass on wine in future, actually."

Seizing on the lightened mood as she, smiling genuinely this time, shook her head, he finally let his shoulders relax and turned towards her.

While true that he had managed to correctly determine what he must have been poisoned with, there was still another much more pressing matter to be investigated—though he felt he had almost as sure of a conclusion to this, as well.

"Freya... before Christmas, was that bottle sitting out, by chance?"

She blinked at him as she thought over his sudden question. "I'm... not sure. Everything was sort of thrown about... There were things all over the table... I—Oh, yes, I think the wine was actually one of them. I tried to stuff it in with the rest in the wardrobe and then realized it might break, so I set it in—"

"But it was out before?" he interjected, trying to hone in on the point. "Was it set somewhere noticeable?"

"Er... I think it was just out on the coffee table with everything else."

He reeled back into himself, thoughtfully letting his eyes roam over the familiar ingredients strewn about the tall potion's desk. The coffee table was near the door...

"Severus," she said, breaking up his thoughts before they could even form. She had stepped even closer and turned searching eyes upon him, making him frown. "If what you said about that poison is true... and you're putting things together... won't you please just share it with the rest of us? You know, considering it was most likely my fault, I would like to actually be of help."

It had been expected of course. It didn't, however, make it any easier for him to now have to turn away from her imploring face. At the same time that he had indeed been putting things together between his feverish dreams, he had also been trying to figure out how he was going to handle the most chaotic element to this incident of all: Freya. There would be no hiding it from her cloying helpfulness. His only resort was to be as firm in his resolution as was possible and make things perfectly clear.

"I'm not so sure that you would like to know..." he said with a foreboding note to his voice, making her brows lower but not look any less interested in what he had to impart. Giving up his last hesitations with a small sigh, he went on with less patience. "My bedchambers were already thoroughly searched, correct?" This fact had been delivered to him while he'd still been heavily in his fever, and he had been much less soothed than Freya had seemed to think he would be to learn that both Dumbledore and Slughorn had rifled through his things for any intrusion. They were the intrusion as far as he was concerned, and however Freya tried to make it sound like a positive that she had modestly denied the duty herself as to respect his privacy, he wished it had been precisely none of them.

She nodded, and he continued, "Then that leaves..."

"My room?" she asked in alarm. "But— Oh..."

He watched as the same pieces clicked into place behind her widening eyes as had for him.

"Your office may have been broken into after all," he said. Before she could do more than open her mouth, he spilled the rest of his evidence in a torrent of conviction. "The wine was clearly labeled with my name. Even if his original goal in breaking in had been to snoop on you, the reasons for both align. But as I said," he enunciated, slowing his voice, "I don't think you would like to know why."

"Why?" she demanded without hesitation, looking annoyed with this game. "And why do you think it was specifically that man and not… Well… Maybe someone else had been trying to break into my—oh, shut it." She shot down his look of deep disapproval at this line of unfounded logic and went on doubtfully, "Well, then, why on earth would some man filling in for my teaching position want—"

"Ah, but he wasn't just a man, he was a man of the Ministry," he said with a sneer on the word. "His affiliation can't be discounted simply due to his department being uninvolved with the law. And before you argue further," he spoke up as she looked both equal parts ready to do so and baffled, "you didn't have the pleasure of meeting him. He was just as interested as to what I was up to as to you. There's no doubt that he was poking into things concerning the," he paused, subduing the note of bitterness he had been about to use, "Headmaster. Your relation to him was your cover story when you used to visit the Ministry, yes? And I was hired by him, which at the time was a story about to be broken in the papers to smear him, a fact that he already knew. He was waiting for it to shock everyone, to judge their reactions and know who was guilty..."

She seemed at a loss for words to these most important points, skipping over them entirely after a beat of silence. "But... But then we know who it might be! We have to—"

"We have to what?" he cut across her, losing some of his cold composure as an old venom seemed to be quickly filling up his veins the more this drew on. "We have to go and turn in the culprit? Run and tell the Ministry—the people who were most likely pushing their hand to have the man look into the school in the first place? And who do you imagine, in this idyllic scenario, that they are likely to believe?" This time the message appeared to be sinking in, her mouth slowly closing with no quick retort, and he dropped his voice to a subdued, low hiss. "They'll take one look at someone trying to poison a suspected Death Eater and affix him with a metal for his efforts, wishing he had done a better job—"

"That's not true!" she said with a slap on the countertop. "Severus, you're being completely unreasonable, the Ministry might be—well, alright, don't look at me like that—but they wouldn't just hand-wave people who go round doling out death sentences, that's insane!"

"They did during the war," he countered, "or do you think every killing curse from an Auror's wand is justified?"

"What?" She took a step back, looking hurt, but he held his glare. "Why are you turning this on me? I don't... I'm just saying that I think you're being a little outrageous, this doesn't even make any sense. A Ministry worker using Dark magic to murder someone for being a Death Eater? I think you've got this wrong—"

"People don't generally use Euphoria and Hiccupping Solutions to murder," he said flatly, turning away from her troubled face as if this settled the matter.

It was well beyond frustrating to see her act exactly as predicted, to the letter. Trying to poke holes in his conclusion because she didn't want it to be true, immediately following the routine of 'justice'... He had been holding onto the idea that most of his misgivings were imaginative and poor faith, that she was smarter than to fall into the black and white world of heroic deeds conquering wicked ne'er-do-wells, that she of all people at the school seemed like she would understand—that she might want to understand, given the look she had worn when asking him to share more...

He heard her sigh and glimpsed her shaking her head. "I really think you've got this all wrong..."

His hands gripped the edge of the countertop. "Think whatever you want then," he said with no more mind to argue. "My point remains: there's no use in you telling the Headmaster or anyone else. I'm handling it on my own."

She reacted more as if he had shouted, her hand coming down on the counter in front of him, forcing her way into his line of sight, and suddenly her eyes, lit by the fire under the cauldron, were burning furiously into his.

"Severus, you are not seriously telling me to hide an attempted murder that happened on my watch, in part because of me, to someone that I care about, and let you go do Merlin-knows-what off on your own—are you?"

He stared back into the molten gold, unblinking, her words reverberating back through his head.

"If you actually cared," he said slowly, "then you would listen when I do what you profess to want—share. But apparently you aren't capable of understanding truths you don't like. Allow me to make it clear for you," he leaned in closer, voice every bit as poisonous as the contents of the cauldron, "I prefer to do things... alone."

This time she didn't snap back, or even so much as move an inch. He merely watched in clear view as the fight washed quickly from her face, hot metal doused in water so that it instantly cooled hard—and then she blinked, stepping back from him.

She gave a stiff nod to the wall behind him and seemed to prepare an uncooperative tongue to speak. "Right. If that's what you want, then."

Her last line of well wishes and good luck was crushed in the door as she closed it behind her, and he was left staring at the motionless slab of wood.

The whole room suddenly seemed too still and quiet. He softly cleared his throat as if expecting something else to happen, unsure if he was meant to be the one actioning it. When nothing came, he sighed with a bit too much force and turned back to his station, plunging into the thankfully much distracting tangled mess before him.

Apparently his injured status had well and truly worn off. A shame, as he hadn't gotten to ask her for the favor he needed. It was no matter, however. He was certain that he was right and that it would be worth her momentary anger to prove it. Time would tell the true tale of who the enemy was.

But in the coming days, a threat greater than enemies manifested itself around him.

"Galloping gryphons, a poisoning in our school!"

"Quiet down, we don't need riling up till we're scared half to death—"

"Perhaps we should be—a teacher being attacked!"

"Well, he's fine now, isn't he?"

A ring of heads turned to stare at him. It took him a moment to realize his input might be required for such a matter.

"Fine," was his one enunciated word of assurance.

The heads swiveled and went back to their chattering, which was somehow both all to do with him and left him feeling like an armless coat rack—a completely unnecessary piece of furniture to the conversation.

He avoided returning to the teacher's lounge for the rest of his week officially back, but he couldn't avoid being cornered in the halls with unwanted concerns, and dropped in on unannounced by people 'checking in' on him. He got enough fruit baskets (truthfully only three, but three was three too many) that he privately changed his mind and declared that he had indeed mucked up his Christmas gift to Freya, as not a being alive could possibly enjoy even one. At least Slughorn's had mostly been decorated with sprigs of useful ingredients. He must have either raided the supply closet to quickly make it himself, or else the only shops the man knew were a mix of bakeries and apothecaries. Dumbedore's had included a pair of socks so fluffy he had confused them for pillows at first, and was sure they were entirely unusable, not that he intended to ever try.

"You're a teacher of Hogwarts, same as them. Of course they care."

Severus nearly missed where he was meant to turn his stride as he held his disgusted glare on Freya, walking swiftly beside him but showing no notice of his expression, her nose turned up as it had been all week. Something slightly above the horizon of every room they were in seemed to preoccupy her gaze lately, though at the same time she appeared bored with it.

"They have a ridiculously weak set of morals then if they're willing to defend anyone who works here," he said finally.

"Would you really prefer they not defend you, Severus? Really?"

Her languid eyes were cast on him and he thought for a second that Freya expressing boredom looked a lot like her expressing a subdued fury.

He once again held his stare for a long several paces before flicking his eyes away and answering in an undertone as students passed them.

"I'd prefer to limit who I count as comrades to those who are at least rational."

Ironically, it was the students' greetings which he found more comfortable. His own House wasted no time in applauding his return to the Great Hall, and in classes hung about languishing how awful his absence had been. To his surprise (and quiet pride), a few even denounced Slughorn's temporary take-over, citing his too-soft treatment of the other Houses and general overly jolly demeanor. It was, of course, all just kiss-up, but Severus couldn't quite keep his smirk at bay. They might as well be learning how to butter up a superior at their age, about to enter the work force. He considered it an uplifting thing that any of them had not only been able to keep up with his lectures, but also absorb information on himself and enact an attempt to use it on him. Charming little snakes, really.

Apart from the other House students and a few of the teachers, who he expected weren't the type to set aside differences with their own mothers, let alone a random coworker (which, in his book, at least made more sense), there was only one person who wasn't treating him as if he might bodily break apart at any moment.

The scraping of fork tongs across decorative plating stopped his bite of egg before it reached his mouth. His lip went between his teeth, lowering his uneaten food.

It was a testament to how much he had put up with in his life that he didn't say something after days of Freya playing with her breakfast rather than eating it. At least dinner was different. She didn't seem able to stop herself from being hungry then, or whatever was the matter with her in the mornings dissipated by that time. He certainly had no clue, given that he hadn't asked and she hadn't offered any explanation; or rather, babbled; or made some aside in the middle of her usual chatter; or apologized unnecessarily out of some ingrained politeness. Or said much at all.

It had taken him a couple times before he had walked away from a conversation between them realizing he had been the one, for once, talking the most. Even though he knew she had a vested interest in the readings on the effects of nearby natural disasters on caterwauling vicardis that he had been recanting, she had offered only minimal input; just enough to keep him talking. At first, he had been mad at himself for not catching on immediately, but this quickly redirected to her alone.

He had thus far refused to say something, however, and had finished his breakfast with his shoulders tense but his conscious clean each morning.

"I want to have a look around your office."

Freya, lowering her stack of tests for the first time since she had curled up on the bench at the usual round teacher's library table to grade them, looked confused at the sound of his voice more so than his request.

"Did we not already inspect everything last month?" she said, seemingly unaffected.

"Yes… However, we weren't sure what we were looking for."

She held his eyes for a moment, and he could see the branching thoughts being worked out.

"Right," she said flatly, "and you're so sure now."

Her divergence from his use of 'we' wasn't missed, but he didn't comment. He had a goal to achieve and didn't need to be fighting right—

"Have at it. You know the spell, you can let yourself in. I won't get in your way."

Before he could have blinked twice, she had huddled back into her papers.

Having had no idea what else to do after that, and seeing as he had already put the task off for days since her storming out on him had interrupted his original plan to broach the question then, he had indeed found himself in Freya's chambers with the woman herself starkly missing.

The dormant tower room, with no merrily crackling fire nor laughter that reached the high, pointed ceiling, had him feeling like a bat that had ventured out in daylight only to find the nearest cave he had flapped himself into was more unwelcoming than the snowy peaks of the Scottish hills. It seemed as if the sound of her voice itself had been swept clean like no more than dust. Any comfort he had once felt here, any flutters of hope or desire that had kept his heart well exercised, now seemed to be as successfully hidden as whatever magic had led his gift to being poisoned.

Ultimately, he found nothing new in this second scouring, though it could very well have been due to his urgency to leave the unlit candles and the empty couch cushions behind.

That had been the feather that had put the first crack in his resolve.

It was as if he was now carrying around that empty room with him, no matter the scenery. No number of piled-up scrolls of work he had to get through due to his absence (and mistrust of Slughorn's grading severity), no amount of planning what to do about his poisoner, no Quidditch team meetings, no teacher assemblies, no plethora of other duties that needed attending to could distract him now. All he could focus on were the long silences of the day.

And the night.

It had truly been like a dream when he had thought that she had once more been enacting her own personal care during his recovery. But he was sure now that he had imagined that it was her song, or only dreamt that he had dreamt it… Either way, the calm that his feverish sleep had left was shattered, and there was now no running from his thoughts in the quiet of his office, the incoherent buzz of the Great Hall, nor the still darkness of his unfriendly bed chambers.

He missed much more than just her song now, as she diligently sat just out of arm's reach from him every passing day. It was a halting, grating transition going from wanting to avoid her eyes, to wishing she would look at him at all.

He wished that he could turn to her and pick her brain on something that he knew she would have an explosive opinion on, so that they could debate, so that he could see the liveliness in her when she leaned in to get her point across with utmost earnestness. He wanted to see her reaction to the newly appointed Minister of Magic, and hear her form an absolute opinion on him based solely on his choice of hat. He wanted to have been around her when that first-year Hufflepuff boy had been caught trying to sneak a juvenile hognose back from Care of Magical Creatures, and seen her face when what had gotten the boy caught were all of the tiny bite marks. He wanted to hear her sarcasm as she rolled her eyes, experience her bright laughter, and see her barely contained grin. He wanted to feel his heart blip when she, after a long night of paperwork, would get bored and come round behind him to see what he was working on, leaning on the back of his chair and not quite keeping her flowing hair in check. He wanted to throw an ace down and gush his thoughts he had held in that night by the far side of the lake, shock her with honesty, make her talk to him, implore her to care again.

He wanted to be mad at her for waging such an effective war on him with such a calculated tactic.

But most of all, he wanted her to sit with him on that couch, lay her head on his shoulder, and sing straight into his chest, held to his side by his arm around her, peaceful, and the exact opposite kind of quiet he was currently enduring.

His half of their shared notebook lay on his desk at all times now, shut, but at the ready for him to fully break his silent determination. Though it was only a doomsday scenario, after having let the idea of spilling his guts to her make form the first time, he felt his stomach squirm oddly every time his mind wandered back to it. What could be worse than a limbo in which he was trapped between his resolve and his desires? Was pitying him really so bad if it meant she at least liked him well enough to say a 'good morning'?

It wasn't clear if it was his own anxious glancing, complete with occasional full-on stares, that was getting her attention and making her look over from her paperwork now, or if she was losing some of her own commitment. Either way, she was the first to break it one afternoon.

She had plopped herself down at their table in the teacher's library, always perfectly on time to show up like normal where she pleased, while resolutely maintaining her silence. But her posture of lounging across the bench with her knees drawn up, a mountain of thick essay scrolls in her lap, had told him without talking that she was too anxious to fully dive into her work with any gusto. He knew she always starting picking at the tip of her quill and refilling her ink unnecessarily when she didn't want to work.

"Severus, if you want something, just ask."

He didn't need to lift his eyes as they were already firmly fixed, but he did pause before answering, almost savoring the petulant look on her face as if she knew she was admitting a defeat.

"Actually, I could use some more ink, if you please," he said smooth as silk.

"Come off it. I prepared a whole new set for you while you were sick, and I know you weren't quite out yet to begin with."

He tongued his cheek, not wavering his gaze even as she lowered hers back to her work, which consisted of tapping her quill against the paper and not moving her eyes away from a single point. He threw the rest of his carefully laid talking points to the wind.

"I would like to talk to you in private," he said, leaning his whole body in, "and it would be easier to do from one of our offices—"

"You can talk to me here."

He let her have her moment of icy glaring, but he wasn't going to back down now. This time, he straightened up.

"Are you still patrolling at night?"

It was a question poised to give her pause and it did its job. She sank just a tad more down into the bench cushions, attempting to hide her sheepishness behind a forced raise of her chin.

"Yes, I suppose I might be," she said with a shrug. "Depends on the night, some are more active than others. The students do have to sleep some time."

It was nice of her, he thought, to put up the pretense that she was only looking out for students. However, to him it was an unspoken truth that there was always an eye on him so long as he was within the castle grounds; at least as far as he could prove, because he had no way of knowing if she followed him beyond. Trust, which wasn't an award he so easily handed out to begin with, was one thing, but understanding was an entirely different story. And he understood very well the lengths to which she was capable of going to meddle. Even if he hadn't experienced her showing up every time he so much as stepped a foot upon the lawn during all of the first semester, he still had seen her every time he had left the castle on a mission since January, perched atop a nearby spire or tree. These more recent sightings had been fine, as he accredited it to her jealousy of his permission to leave on more exciting adventures, but now he couldn't risk that she might fly and tattle—or try to stop him herself. Above all else, it was a standoff with her at the gates that he wanted to avoid.

"Well," he continued, "what would you, as acting guardian of this school, have to say if I were to be the one taking a trip out one night?" Before she could form a response more than a deeply searching look, probably hearing his unspoken 'a trip that the Headmaster hadn't forewarned you of,' he went on in a lowered voice, "Would you be willing to turn the other way?"

The question lingered in the air with the scent of dust and ancient polished wood, but he would not waver. As if to confirm his suspicions, her eyes over the top of her stack of papers narrowed until she was staring at him as warily a hognose would a handsy twelve-year-old boy.

"What exactly did you find in my office?" she asked, diverting his proposal entirely. "I believe I have a right to know."

"Nothing," he replied honestly. "Not that I needed to find anything, really."

"Because you already know? You're so certain?" She abruptly shoved her scrolls from her lap and swung her feet off the bench to sit properly, any pretense of holding her silence abandoned. "Certain enough to think that you can get me to go along with this?"

He had to bite back his grin as it made no sense under the circumstances—except that he had succeeded in goading an intensity out of her that he had not seen in days.

"I am. And before you argue," he interjected over her opening mouth, at the moment his need to plug on with his certainty outweighing his desire to listen to whatever chastisement she had for him, "I am not wrong on this. There isn't any question. I did further research through my own methods, and what's more, I discovered that the man himself will be out from his hiding hole of the Ministry for work travel quite soon; spring being the season of most wand wood trees coming in. And so…" He straightened the sleeves of his robes in a manner of closing a business deal. "I will be leaving in a few weeks' time to attend to a matter."

It was a dangerous move. Not confronting the man who had poisoned him, but this. He was leaving himself open to interpretation, of which he was sure his opponent would only be thinking the worst of him, and could very easily drop a line to superior authorities that would undoubtedly love the chance to clip his wings so soon after he had begun flexing them again.

Or… she could understand him this time, appreciate his openness, and let him conduct himself the way he pleased—at risk of being a co-conspirator, of course.

The crux in question was biting her lip. He folded his hands on the table and returned a patient, mild stare. She squinted hard at him. He slowly raised a single brow.

"Severus… Is this anything to do with—with Lily?"

The whole left side of his body twitched. In what felt like slow motion, he deflated at the middle, a storm surge sucking his stomach out to sea all at once.

He couldn't get a single word out, but the shocked look on his face was apparently enough reply.

"It's just that you're acting completely irrational," Freya interrupted, saving him from having to grasp for any appropriately furious response while he was busy spiraling far away from the library. "There's nothing to say what happened for sure, just a long string of assumptions. How do we know the wine wasn't poisoned straight at the source? I contacted the shop that sold it and that man didn't seem—"

"Then you found out the same as I did," he said through his teeth, gripping the table now. "There were no break ins nor disruptions with any other supply—"

"Oh, for the love of— You contacted him too? Well, it's no wonder he was so miffed when I started asking questions! Severus, I really wish you would have just included me—"

"And I really wish," he said in rude mimic of her voice that he had just moments ago missed so much, "that you would have listened when I said that I was handling this myself."

"Well, that's it—that's what I mean right there. If you'd been thinking clearly, you'd have known I'd never obey that rubbish and that I'd be doing exactly this."

His eyes drew from her outstretched hand gesturing at him to her unbelievably blameless expression, and he bit his tongue a tad too hard as he acknowledged that she was at least right about that.

"So, you understand, then?" she continued, misunderstanding his silent rage. "That you're being irrational, perhaps out of some… some vendetta, or martyr syndrome or—"

"Martyr? Is that what you think is going on?" he hissed. "For someone that can look inside other's minds, you sure do miss the mark."

"Well, what else would it be! You've locked yourself all up to deal with this whole thing on your own, you won't talk to me except to be dramatic and demand things, you're all affronted by the rest of the staff caring about you—"

"Excuse me for my susceptibility to whiplash when people make such violent turnarounds," he said with outrage. "If you wish to be throwing around the labels of 'irrational' and 'martyr', perhaps you need only to look around slightly to either side instead."

But she was shaking her head.

"No, Severus, because they all think the same as I do—"

"Ah, how shocking then that you would defend them—"

"Oh, just listen! They've seen war the same as you, and they have even more experience than both of us… in memory, at least," she added. "We all think it must have been… Well…" She seemed to be diminishing under the spotlight she had put herself in, the highest authority of scrutiny boring down on her and already boiling. "Before you get angry, I didn't let on who you thought it was, but... Do you recall if he rolled up a sleeve, or…?"

He blinked, temporary absorbed with this new interest, before solving it and finding it lacking.

"He wasn't sporting any sort of Mark. You're wrong."

"Suppose he was hiding it, then! Either with his sleeves always down, or with magic of some sort…"

"It can't be hidden with magic," he shot back with a petty need to prove how much more knowledge of the situation he had.

"Oh."

He watched her in sharp attention, waiting for her to throw more into the fire that was his burning rage so that he could turn that to ash as well, but she seemed to have gotten caught up on something else.

"Did... Did you know that before you set out to get one yourself? No—sorry—" she quickly shook her head at the look she got in response, lowering her eyes to the table. "Look, Severus, I really don't think this was the work of a normal Ministry official. Dark Magic, his vague threats, his interest in Albus and me, specifically… Who's to say he didn't think that both of us would drink it? Or, really, that he thought the tag with your name meant that it was from you—a present for me? Maybe he was in a hurry and read it wrong, maybe he isn't even the right suspect, someone at the party could—"

"The poison needs to be set in carefully," he explained as if to a student who had missed his first two explanations. "He would need to have had plenty of time, which he would have, seeing as you were in dispose elsewhere and the room had been empty at length. And any intrusion during the party would have been within the time frame to leave a trace. It was him. I am positive of it. We discussed this."

"But—"

His hands found the top of the table once more, this time coming down harder than he had meant to.

"Enough! You are missing the point." He paused to see if she would argue, continuing at a lower, still simmering volume when she showed her mouth clamped shut for the time being. "It doesn't matter how he did it, or his exact reasons," he raised his chin as she opened her mouth in indignation, "all that matters is that I know for a fact that he is the man, and that you will stay silent three weeks from now, on the night of—"

"You are truly off it if you think for one second, one second—"

This was her explosive arguing that he had been daydreaming of, practically preparing to launch out of her seat and across the table at him.

"—That I will sit here, silent, and bend to your will like some puppet! Who on earth do you think you are?"

"I thought that I was someone you had an understanding of," he shot back, half as loud but just as fierce.

This seemed to combat the flames, and she hesitated.

"You mean a friend?" she asked with what was lost in anger replaced with hurt. "Yeah, I thought so as well. Which is why I thought I should be here for you in this and actually help out." He turned his head as the strength in her voice grew back. "I thought friends were supposed to have each other's backs when one of them undergoes an attempt on their bloody life—I thought friends were supposed to tell the other when they're acting like their fever never wore off and go chasing round a made-up rabbit like a mad hound—"

"Excuse me, I have been perfectly fine since—"

"Ten days, Severus, ten! You've been up and about all this time and you haven't spoken to me about what was going on once. You haven't spoken to me about… about anything else, either, for a lot longer…"

He fully turned in his chair this time—away from the fact that she had been keeping count of their silence, away from the truth that she was still thinking about his unspoken admission—he diverted his gaze to the rest of the circular landing of the library, which he hoped everyone had already cleared out of for early dinner. A shuffling of pages and a dull thud of hard leather covers echoing up from the floors below told him otherwise, and he wished he had forced a meeting in privacy.

He suddenly stood up, turning around to a surprising find of a Freya who looked not in any need of a final blow to end things. His mouth closed and he rethought his departing words with a bite of his lip. But before he could change tracks, he was interrupted.

"Is this really what you want?" she asked, at a loss and looking up at him with her hands in her lap and her shoulders hunched. "For everyone to dislike you and leave you all on your own?"

He sneered at the implication that he wouldn't be perfectly capable 'on his own.' But the instantaneous response never escaped passed his tongue.

As he looked down, his head raised in a pride that needed to distance itself from the pleading look below, he couldn't find a suitable response through the branches of thought that came down to obscure his view.

He turned his head as if to shake it.

"Three weeks, two days," he said flatly. "Stay out of it."

He had barely carried himself down the hall outside the library doors before, as was the way of the phoenix, Freya had apparently risen from the ashes of whatever thoughts had consumed her with a new and fiery venom.

"'Stay out of it'? You think that's going to work on me? I'm not going to be intimidated and—and strong-armed into this, Severus!"

"Well, if it's some stronger convincing that you're looking for, I'm sure we could schedule something," he said without breaking stride. "After I've seen to my business, of course."

"Are you looking for a fight? Oh, you do not want to fight me on this—"

"Quite sure that I would love it," he said, veering to the side as she caught up to him and stomped alongside his long strides. He calmly checked around for listeners. "But we really needn't resort to such a thing so long as both of us keep quiet."

"I will not!" He paused to raise his brows at her firmly stamped foot which had stopped her pace, letting her stew in the attention on the foolishness of her action. She shot twin hot coals at him and set her jaw. "I'll tell him."

He considered her for hardly a second.

"You won't," he determined.

"I will. If you won't listen, I'll go to Albus. Maybe he can make you see reason."

"Well, isn't this a fun resurgence of Dumbledore's most precious pet."

"Pet? Pet? Excuse me?"

His eyes fell shut, though not from the sharp rise in volume nor worry of it alerting someone to their argument. Dealing with Freya not remembering details of their relationship and the inevitable line to his failures that led to such was not the extra weight he wanted at the moment.

"You're excused for not remembering our little 'inside joke'," he said, using the terminology they had settled on for times like these, which was quick to make her lower her anger for confusion, if only for a second.

"Well… Well—fine then!" Her eyes searched over the surrounding hallway décor as if to find instructions to another strategy. "Perhaps Albus isn't the man to go to, perhaps I'll borrow your more direct approach, but do it my own way."

He scoffed at this.

"Do what in your 'own way', exactly?" He had given up on escaping any time soon and instead stepped toward her with his interrogation. "Waltz into the Ministry, perhaps take a cushioned seat in a waiting room, fill out a form for an official meeting, and tick the box labeled 'would like to discuss if you have by chance slipped deadly poison into any wine lately, please respond promptly'?" He was towering over her lowered, sullen face by the time he finished, but she shot back up.

"Why not? I don't have to meet with him directly, and I've been around the Ministry enough on my own…" She gave a small clearing of her throat, reminding him of her questionable investigations and making him wonder exactly what Ministry workers saw on a daily basis if they had let a phoenix fly around their offices. "If he's willing to use his job as an excuse to snoop around the school, what was his workplace for a period, then why wouldn't it be likely for his Ministry office to hold some clues?"

He opened his mouth… then sealed it back shut as he stared into a painting behind her, her words echoing in the sudden silence. The little painting-dwellers could have been sitting down to popcorn without him having ever known for all the attention his eyes, narrowed in whirling thought, were giving it.

"It would be much more likely," he said slowly, "that his home would hold more clues. But seeing as Ministry officials' homes are even more heavily guarded than most wizarding dwellings, there's little chance… Though, it would be rather illuminating to catch him where he slept with the power to peer inside those dreams rather easily accessible… He needn't even be asleep at his home, that could be achieved anywhere…"

His eyes lowered once more, though with a very different light.

"What—me?" She started backing herself up toward the painting, hands up and shaking her head. "Oh no—absolutely not—you're not dragging me into your insanity. I can't even do what you're saying! Look inside someone's mind while they're asleep? I don't do that, Severus!"

"Really…?" He gave her a lengthy look, unconvinced to rethink some of the intrusions that he attributed to her. "Well, no matter… seeing as this is all nonsense anyway and I'll be going through with my own plan of action." He turned to walk away, ignoring her open mouth ready to start up again and delivering over his shoulder, "Which I intend to actually succeed."

The stairs were barely in view before he heard Freya apparently fully abandon their noise restraint.

"Alright, then, fine! Enjoy your—…your Easter vacation—alone!"

He fully emptied his chest with a sigh and rolled his eyes as he made his own racket taking the aged wood stairs heavily, and, a floor below, whipping the loose fabric of his robes in annoyance when they couldn't keep up with his hard turn down a hallway.

It didn't matter. None of her anger—nor the wrath that might ensue from Dumbledore, nor the possible returned looks of disdain from the other staff, nor the fact that he would have to wait weeks with Freya not talking to him before he could even attempt to leave and prove himself right—mattered. If someone was going to drop a poison into his wine, for the reason of his own actions, then it was his to deal with. He alone would be the one to orchestrate whatever he deemed fit to punish someone who dared think they could judge him—or best him—while they themselves sat atop a cushy chair of unearned righteousness.

He knew he was right in this, that it was a matter of his own world, the world he had chosen for himself; albeit having found it stickier than he could have imagined as a teenager.

'Vendetta'... 'Martyr'...

He stopped his dwindling pace to scoff and curse her name; for this, and for bringing up other matters which she knew nothing about.

He had arrived at a window at the end of the hall, not needing to wince in the harsh afternoon rays as he glanced through, his brow already furrowed.

Students were wrapping up their post-lesson distractions and taking undecided steps back toward the castle, the choice between free time in the last bit of tepid warmth of the day and the hot food awaiting them inside apparently proving difficult. A larger group of green-lined robes in particular caught his eye, and his less-exciting troubles leapt up to relieve his caged stress.

They couldn't have been older than third-years, two more before he would have to be hearing their undoubtedly insightful declarations of future plans, and another two more before they would be of legal wizarding age to have to follow through with them. Seventeen years. That, plus two clockwise stirs, a generous pinch of optimism, perhaps a spin around blindfolded three times, and a flurry of wand flicks… Was that the recipe for a fully-fledged decision-making adult? Surely not...

Except on rare occasions, as he had made the same decision-making journey, and—of course—he had never been so foolish...

How many years had it been since he had sat in that same chair and listened to Slughorn's promptings? Seven, was it? Seven years since he had felt so sure of himself as to snub his teacher's thoughts for a future in which he had been already secretly decided, dubbing any information Slughorn had to give as useless, bordering on a complete waste of his time; precious time that he had left before he was to be taught by a true master, a person of real skill and power who could open up the world of magic like wrenching apart a ripened fruit.

His eyes glazed the horizon—trimmed lawn, shadowy pockets of snow, wild forest, and patchy sunset skies—all into one until it seemed as if the glass pane had a dream-like decorative frosting overtop it. He stared until the waning blur of red faded far off to one side, a deep purple taking its place.

He had the distant realization, as his mind cleared and he was left with only the throb and none of the rage, that he was feeling the trepidation and frustration that he should have felt back then at fifteen; toppling over itself downhill and compounding into a giant stone with the addition that he shouldn't be—can't be—this uncertain about life at his age, as an adult.

But it couldn't be. It couldn't be true that he still had more to do, when he had already done so much to tear down and rebuild his course. Where else, exactly, was he meant to go from here? How could he possibly make a mistake after assuredly having learned from the worst?

Surely it wasn't meant to be this hard. It had seemed so straightforward, so simple, as a child.

'Ah, Severus! Come in, my boy, come in. Did you read the leaflets I left yet? You must have, I know how quick you are! Tell me, what did you think about that exciting one on the seclusive life of the traveling Herbologist?'

'Be happy, Severus! You've now officially succeeded your professor, what more could you ask out of life?'

'Sad to have such troubling business interrupt such a good trip but, ah, well. The proper authorities will see to it, or perhaps Dumbledore himself! Not anything I'd want my nose in, anyway.'

The long, steady breath he let out fogged his view into obscurity. Which was a good thing, as it blocked any potential for a student to look up and lipread the line of obscenities that left his mouth straight afterword.

There was one thing of which he was certain—he bloody hated his old teacher.

—-

It took two days for him to prepare, act, and strike.

And though it was an admittedly hasty happening, he wasn't sure that any amount of time would have had him picturing himself with his face shoved next to a mildewy mop-head in a tiny broom cupboard.

At random intervals the mop would rattle and drip a sudsy foam into a bucket below, which emptied itself much more efficiently than the mop seemed to be at its own job. Unfortunately, the two were bewitched onto the same tiny wheeled cart, and thus were stuck together as a broken pair.

Severus was holding his breath, mostly to keep from sighing louder than what he was listening for.

There was another thing in the cramped space, unrelated to cleaning or disrepair; a powder keg of sorts. Only, this powder keg was in the form of a woman, who at the moment was holding very still. Literally, as he could hear her gripping her hands together and wringing them as the bucket might do the mop.

"Stop it," he finally snapped, causing his hair to flip with his sudden movement. Freya jumped about a foot from her seated position, nearly dislodging a duster from a pile of its replicas, and clamped a fist over her mouth to keep from yelping.

"I don't like this," she whispered through her fingers.

"I am well aware of that fact, thank you," he hissed back. "You could have chosen a better spot than this if you hated it so much."

"It was the only place I've hidden in before—and that's not what I meant!"

He knew this of course, but he had heard her voice her doubts so many times now that he had to come up with something else to respond with, lest he go insane.

"You want to be involved? Fine. I'll prove to you."

Those were the words that he had said days ago, panting as he had run all the way back to the library, her office, and then his own before finding her. From the start, she had protested and questioned his plot so much that he had almost forgotten that he needed her particular expertise and gone without her. Of course, he wouldn't have gotten very far, as her role was to get them into the Ministry of Magic in the first place. And, after practically dragging her over the threshold and all but forcing her fingers to snap their magic under his own power, he had gotten them here.

Her voice piped up once more and he thought he felt a muscle in his forehead jerk.

"They're still chatting?"

"Yes," he said through his clenched jaw. He focused on the cluster of voices for a moment, putting his ear to the small hole he had made with his wand, which he had projected a listening spell out of. "The Minister himself is somewhere upstairs… Friday luncheon with some Heads of Department…"

"Oh, I knew it, I told you! Lunch break would never be enough time to get this done, and it's a bad idea besides! Everyone is milling about—we should have come at night!"

He shook his head as if tickled by a duster. He did not want to rehash the conversation about why they were doing things this way. Thankfully he was saved by the sudden punctual echo of heels ebbing away from his earshot, interrupted by the catching of a latch.

"They're gone."

He straightened up immediately and turned around to the sights and sounds of Freya clattering to her feet, having kicked the upturned bucket she had been sitting on in her frazzled haste. He sighed with hurried exasperation, internally thanking his own ability and foresight to muffle the room with a spell.

"Get on with it, go," he said as he might command an animal, pointing downward obscurely. He realized too late it was pointless to direct her by sight, anyway.

"Now? Are you sure? You've still got the…"

His chest was suddenly groped at random as Freya tried to find a hem of fabric, made difficult by both his swatting hands and his current state, until he finally gave in and wrenched his hand through the cloak himself.

"It's here!" he snapped, producing the required pass to calm her nerves.

It looked odd in the dingy light of the closet, faintly glowing a much more vibrant shade than the room looked to have seen in ages. His disembodied hand floating out to hold it was a sight in and of itself.

"Well, it's hard to find you when you're under there," Freya complained, unable to meet his eyes, hidden under the invisible layer of fabric as he was.

He had to admit the woman was good for more than just Apparating into heavily guarded wizarding locations with her different rules of magic, she had proven herself many times over now at wardrobe enchantments. Mixing a Potion of Invisibility would have taken long enough that the Ministry man's wand wood trees would have been blooming. He was glad to have vetoed her first idea of a giant invisibility blanket though.

"I have the feather, I know how to use it—"

"And you will use it, right? If anything goes wrong, Severus—"

"You will hear from me," he said sternly. "One way… or another."

It felt as if the little space had returned to a listening room for a moment. He watched as Freya lowered her eyes and closed them, her expression smoothing to a calm concentration with only a momentary scrunch of her brows. He took a wide step to one side and did the same. In his pocket, he held his wand in one hand and pressed the phoenix feather closer to his chest. Her eyes snapped open and his hand was snatched before he could do more than flinch, hot fingers clasping his.

Don't kill him, Severus.

The tense nerves of his face twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was proving to be a reliable fail-safe, but he wasn't at all comforted by how quickly she could access his mind, even on a surface level to impart simple words. He immediately retracted back behind sturdy walls.

He could tell she still couldn't see his face, but her eyes held ample intention as they were locked instead onto his hand she was holding tight. His fingers were trapped between the warmth of the activated feather, and her palm, which radiated heat in tune with his pulse.

"Or anyone else," she whispered insistently. "You promised.

"Accidents happen."

Eyes of gold found his with sudden unnerving accuracy, making the back of his neck prickle. His joke was ignored, however.

"Don't get yourself killed either."

"That," he said, repositioning his hand over hers, "is what you are here for."

A weak, begrudging smile threatened her face but she lost it as soon as he stepped back from her grip, prompting that they needed to make haste.

A revealed hand pointing towards the empty bit of space he had made for her was all the signal she needed. He ducked his face away, but all that made contact was what felt like a velvety, warm breeze. He looked back to see what he expected perched atop a stack of towels, long feathered tail hanging down.

With a nod of finality and one last listen of the silence, he flung open the unmarked door and was out in a single motion, shutting the phoenix into darkness.

And in what seemed like no time at all, he was wrenching the door back open without so much as a beat to use their warning signal.

It had felt like lightning over the polished marble floors—mostly—other times it had felt like dragging a troll through mud; either way, he was panting by the time he heard the surprised avian shriek at his reappearance and felt the commotion of feathers tickle his tingling skin even through his shirt, his enchanted robe falling to the floor without a second thought.

"Freya, I need you!"

"I'm here, I'm here!" she whispered back in the same frantic voice, having popped back to her more understandable form in an instant. She was already patting him down for some hidden bodily harm or other mortal peril, but he snatched up her hands, holding them and her attention still.

"I need you to follow the Minister," he said, causing a convenient stunned silence from his companion. "Listen—he's being watched by a man with long blond hair. I don't know if—" His head snapped round as if he could have seen the time of his fate running out. "—If he's still there, or if he made his approach, but—"

"Severus, what on—"

"Listen!" He gathered himself, for a moment taking in the plain gray cement between the facing points of their shoes. "He is—was—a Death Eater."

"What? Then—I was right!"

He blinked at her, then shook his head.

"No, no—the blond man, the man following the Minister—the man I need you to follow!"

His hopes of making it in time were slipping away with what looked to be Freya's braincells through her ears, her mouth agape in confusion. At his frustrated noise of disapproval, she seemed to gather her words again through anger.

"Pardon me," she started, "but how am I meant to know who's blond and who's not? You never said what he— Oh, this was such poor planning! I've no idea what he looks like, or whoever this new man is... We really should have discussed this, or—or something—"

Once more he governed silence over the small broom cupboard, this time letting go of her hands to slip straight to her face, holding it inches from his and commanding her with his eyes. Wordlessly, he bore his meaning into them until he was sure she would understand. Then, he gently let his eyelids fall shut, knowing she would follow. After a split second, he felt her hands tremble into place over his.

It was more difficult to corral his scrambling mind running out in all directions to fall in line down this one particular hall. Years of schoolyard pranks and much more wicked deeds raced passed in time with his quickened heartbeat, changing and warping the person he was searching for beat by beat, until he could find this most recent barely familiar version—and crystalize it.

There he was, just a glimmer at first through the dense crowd of Ministry-goers, and then a clearer glimpse showing a face too proud and pointed to acknowledge its own currently gaunt tinge. His hand was glued into the pocket of his long black coat and, similarly, his eyes might have been hiding a bewitchment of fascination behind them, following a single person with rapt hunger; a man who was busily surrounded by whomever was tickling his fancy enough to make him let out a laugh louder than the quiet of the passer's-by, who were courteously shrinking away.

Severus opened his eyes with a flash.

Freya seemed to have some trouble coming out of the daze, taking a moment to even so much as blink as she stared back at him in dull surprise.

"Well," she whispered finally, and then just as quickly stumbled over her words again, swiftly casting her eyes down to follow her hands. "Well, I... suppose I'm glad you showed me the new Minister as well... Looks nothing like he does in the papers..."

His stare lingered on her, for a moment trying to puzzle out what could only be her deeper thoughts on the matter of the new Minister—before realizing his own hands and quickly lowering them from her face.

"Follow the man. This... new man," she stated with a serious nod, not meeting his eyes.

"Yes, follow the blond man," he confirmed to the cement flooring, discreetly putting more of it between them.

"And don't muck it up... trip over myself and transform in front of the Minister, or something..."

He lifted his head. "You won't muck it up."

She peeked up as well, looking surprised and desperate for the reassurance. "How do you know?"

"Because I won't ever let you hear the end of it if you do."

Her smirk hesitantly followed his until the confidence made its way up to her eyes, where she matched him in intensity.

"And same to you when I pull it off flawlessly."

He watched as she filled her lungs, seeming to let her uncertainty out in a single breath and turn her nerves into a vibration of energy. In the enclosed space, cut off from Ministry and castle alike, he could have let himself forget the past couple weeks, caught instead in this moment of haste and secrecy and reliance. Her eyes were alight with a particular vibrancy that he could never fully appreciate before having to dodge away; but not this time. He could have sworn he had never born witness to them in quite this way, and couldn't pull himself free...

"You should go," he breathed out quietly.

"Oh—right."

But before she could shift passed him, he caught her again, taking them both by surprise. He held her shoulders, staring at her with as much anticipation for what he had to say as she was showing. With an awkward swallow and a pat of her arm, he had to settle on stealing her own words.

"Don't... Don't you die either."

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"Yes, sir," she said with a dainty little bow, nimbly sidestepping around him and putting her back to the door. "You try not to get into it with that mop—I'll go do what I do best."

She was unlatching the door and raising one hand that he knew would end their conversation when he gave her pause.

"Being a nosy little snoop?" he asked lightly.

She blinked—and then her hand drooped with her torso as she let out an easy laugh, shaking her head. It was in fluid auburn motion that she came back up, throwing her hair back over her shoulder and flashing him a sly grin.

"Not dying."

A wink and a pop later, he was left staring at the door as the latch clicked shut, nothing for company save for the beat of his heart as it kicked back into double speed.

He had a while to wait before the door had opened yet again—with no warning code—again—cutting it close to the start of their next school period, where they each had lessons waiting to be taught that were nothing to do with how to break into magical buildings. It had been a panicked return, a hasty exchange of items to be smuggled to safety, more Apparating around Hogwarts with the help of Freya, and still a brisk walk down the long dungeon hallway before Severus had finally arrived at his class, imposing his usual stiff air on the unalerted students, though he paced around more than normal and his cloak was starkly missing. He taught, he graded, he attended dinner with minimal chatter wherein only meaningful looks were exchanged, and he even graded some more in the evening, catching up on what he had not achieved during his missed morning break. All the while, a hum had rang within his body, his mind whirring.

By the time a sound like an explosive spell shattered the crisp silence of the night air, catching him off guard, he whipped around practically hungry for more excitement.

But as his eyes, adjusted to the blackness from waiting, took in the only point of interest across the empty Astronomy tower, rather than needing to grab his wand to defend himself, he found he might rather need to grab a napkin.

"Ah, shite..."

Though it was still quiet as always, his laugh was harder than normal, as Freya flicked drips from her one hand only to find that the other was quickly covered in just as much sticky wine, still spilling out of the top of the bottle she had just savagely uncorked and was tilting around at all the wrong angles.

"Are you just going to stand there?" she called, stepping up to try and hand the mess off to him.

"Yes," he said with amusement, "especially if you're going to be bringing me more poison."

"Well, I figure the second time's the charm," she said, taking a moment to try and clean up. "Maybe this time I'll finally be rid of you."

"Keep dreaming."

"Oh, I will," she said, mirroring his grin. "One of these days I'll get my revenge on you for killing me, then we'll call it even, eh?"

The corner of his smile faltered, but his attention was diverted as she set the bottle down on the rough stone parapet. She clapped, a burst of flame exploding within her palms which cleaned them off with minimal dusting, then snapped both hands, producing a tall glass in each and handing him one.

"I believe a toast is in order," she declared, as he levitated the bottle with his wand (not wanting to touch it) and poured.

"Ah, yes," he said, raising his glass, "to your exciting new life of crime."

"No!" She shoved him so that he had to raise his glass even higher to keep from spilling and the bottle landed harder than he meant. "Don't say it like that, there was no crime! None!"

"Trespassing a top-security building? Spying on the Minister himself? Colluding with... a suspected Death Eater?" he finished with an appalled breath, tutting and shaking his head.

"Well... that's... nothing violent, at least," she mumbled onto the rim of her glass without taking a sip.

"And it was exciting," he prompted, pulling her back into his own energy.

Her eyes met his, her guilt seeping away under his unwavering mischievous glee, until she couldn't seem to help but grin along.

"Yeah, alright," she admitted. "It was just nerve-wracking. I know it's been a while since I've been out, but it's just so much easier alone. Not having to worry about someone else getting caught up if you fumble things... What? What are you making that face for?"

He had nearly cracked his neck with how high his chin had raised as she spoke, as if profoundly ruminating on her words, coming back down in a deeply inquisitive nod as he took a more relaxed stance against the wall, watching her with a rapt, sharp smirk and swirling his glass.

"I see," he said, as if working his way to a conclusion from her words. "So, what you're saying is that things are... one might say, smoother, when you are alone in tense situations? You could perhaps... achieve a level of focus not attainable otherwise?"

She held still for a moment, frozen in her squinting, until the realization sank her shoulders and she was turning herself away.

"You're detestable, you know that, right?"

"I may have heard that before, yes," he said.

"Then you understand what I'm going to have to do," she said with much sadness.

"Death penalty?"

"Afraid so. Straight to Azkaban. I'm turning you in to Albus in the morning, make sure you enjoy that drink while you can."

He glanced down at said wine, which he had yet to complete his toast from, and raised it once more.

"To crimes worth dying for, then," he said, and waited.

She was at his side now, leaning against the stone along with him, and looking just as begrudging to this second proposal. She seemed to be taking in their positions as well, particularly the distance, and closed it with a tentative adjustment.

"To... people worth committing crimes for," she said quietly, and then clinked her glass into his and covered her mouth with it.

His own sip was slow and measured—not only due to waiting to see if she started choking—but also his mind was turning over her words as he watched her from the side. After her initial drink, she had taken to staring off across the platform in a way that made him nervous that she wouldn't speak again.

"So..." she spoke at last, "are you ever going to tell me what happened?"

"What happened when?" he said quickly, regretting his worry at once.

"With the entire reason you dragged me out there, with the supposedly murderous tree-shagger—you know what I mean, Severus, why haven't you talked about it?"

The sky was decently clear as he took in the view of the stars, only wisps of cloud in the cool air that complimented his wine's enjoyable scent and flavor.

"Ah—... ha!" She energetically jumped in front of him and pinned him with her finger. "Aha! I was right!"

"If you are referring to the inconsequential point," he started, avoiding her line of sight, "that the man in question who poisoned me was indeed a Death—"

"I—was—right! Two Death Eaters!"

"...You may have been correct in assuming that his reasons were different than what my first guess had—"

"'First guess?'" she repeated. "You only had the one!"

"Yes, alright, alright," he finally relented. "He... definitely had his allegiances spread beyond just Ministry law."

She let up on her display, her energy dropping and her brow furrowing more seriously.

"Wow. I honestly wasn't sure if I had gotten that right, I just knew something was off... So, then, it was me he was after?" Her arms folded inward, looking almost as if she was feeling the chill as he was.

But he shook his head. "Not you... me."

"You? But that can't be, he must have known who you were."

"Ah, he did. And that's why."

He took a drink while she pondered this for a moment, searching him from wine glass to boots.

"He thought... the Ministry cleared you because you really were on their side? You had earned your spot under Dumbledore by snaking the Death Eater lot?"

"It isn't the first time I've done too well at my job."

She snorted and rolled her eyes, planting her back against the stone next to his.

"I'm not sure how almost getting yourself killed equates to that, but sure, Sev—you're a genius."

His self-satisfied expression muddled and he turned away. A line of small telescopes, each set into a notch in the parapet, was reflecting points of moonlight off the brass fixings that caught his eye against the otherwise matte navy-blue blanket of everything else.

That had been the one bitter realization as he had stood over the man's desk at the Ministry, with private notes and mail all laid bare before him. That he had been wrong, and, much more importantly, after seeing the other face he recognized so well moments later, that it had mattered a great deal...

"Oi."

His wine and his thoughts were sent rocking as he was lightly bumped into at the shoulder. Freya was looking up at him.

"It's over now, though, right? And you didn't die."

He flicked his hair from his eyes, dodging her concern. "I was never in danger of dying in the first place."

"Oh? Well, I wish you had told me that before I bothered."

"I had everything perfectly under control."

"Just like you've got everything under control now?"

It was a mistake, he well knew, to look back and let her eyes catch hold of him, but whether he couldn't hold himself back from the direct feeling of a good wordless glare, or he just couldn't train himself away from her, he always did it. He held his brooding stare over her hopeful expression, not breaking the contact as he took another sip.

"You want to know so badly?" he confirmed without necessity, as she was practically leaning forward, ready to catch his words if they were to fall.

He retreated into his wine. He hadn't had a moment to himself to think it over, but she had in the end been rather helpful at collecting everything he had learned that day. And she was still willing to pry and to ask... Her memory had either truly lapsed, or she was just hopelessly hopeful that he had something in him that was anything at all what she wanted to hear.

He let out a steady breath.

It took a long moment to collect his thoughts, taking careful consideration of which pieces to share, but eventually he spoke.

"I think," he said in a quiet murmur, "that I may have fallen behind in my work."

He checked with a glance, but she showed no sign of either opening her mouth or looking away.

The problem was, he didn't know how to explain it. Or rather, he could picture a hundred ways for her to misunderstand, and the last thing he wanted on their night of devious celebration was to see her lively face pinch in distaste, as if he were explaining some hideous practice.

"You recall when... when you 'woke up' last December—"

"Oh, you mean when you attacked me and I bloodily followed after you, died in the woods, 'woke up' to be rounded on by your mates—"

"That—is—yes," he said into his glass.

"I do recall that, in fact."

"Excellent," he whispered, inhaling a gulp of wine before continuing. "Then... if you recall.. they were not the most trusting of people."

Her voice returned to a quiet thoughtfulness. "Yes, I don't remember them being the welcoming sort..."

"Even of their fellow members," he added with emphasis, fitting in this important piece. "Trust is earned. But it can be taken away just as fast."

She tilted her head at this, her brows threatening that crease that he had feared.

"So then," she started slowly, "then this man saw you as having betrayed the cause, in a way... He assumed you were well and truly Albus's man, or the Ministry's, possibly from the start, and you had been a spy the other way round..."

He nodded, but she looked completely dissatisfied.

"Well, alright. I get that he might have thought you were a traitor, but what's it got to do with him? The war is over! This man has a job, and surely no friends—or very little access to them from Azkaban. What's he doing going round carrying out some twisted judgement for—?"

"You don't understand," he said before she had even finished. He was shaking his head, not wanting to look directly at her irritated face.

It was the dull clinking sound hitting stone that made him raise his head, looking from her empty and firmly placed glass to her crossed arms. It was her eyes though, as it always was, that kept him drawn in. She stepped closer to him with no less keen interest than that of the times they had discussed and debated in the library. He could almost see the flicker of the fireplace and feel the soft atmosphere of being cradled on all sides by wood and leather and parchment.

"Explain it to me," she said, soft but resolute.

It was unfortunate that his thoughts had to turn down such a dark corridor to do so. But he did want to answer. The question was one that he had puzzled through on his own many times, turning it over and over to marvel at its ugly fractures and facets; the ultimate study into what fascinated him the most.

"What do you know about the Dark Lord?"

"More than you could possibly know."

He was momentarily struck off his path. She tauntingly gave a single bounce of her brows.

"Go on..." she prompted, suppressing her smirk as if she hadn't said anything.

"I... Yes..." He gave her a hard look before trying again. "Yes, well, unless you were hiding under a mask in recent years, I doubt you know what it is I'm talking about."

"You mean what things were like for you?"

His eyes snapped to the side, shoulders raised—but she was only blinking mildly at him. She gave a surprised little frown. Determining he would never be able to get through this with her staring at him, he turned to the far side of the tower walls with finality, settling in to voice his thoughts as if preparing a trance.

"What it was like for myself... and for every other person that crossed paths with him," he began.

It was easier this way, with the wine and the hour of the night shrouding him. Words were transient and immaterial here; he could succumb to memories he normally kept forgotten.

"It isn't enough to say that mistrust ran rampant. It did, of course, on either side. But..." His eyes failed him, dodging away from even the low height he had tried to lose focus on, sinking all the way down to his wine. "There was a reason behind it. It wasn't chaos, as every screeching, idiotic paper seemed to want to call it. It was being orchestrated—perfectly, harmoniously, and with more talent than anyone was capable of seeing."

His eyes twitched to the side, thinking he had let something slip. But he couldn't take a full peek at her just yet.

As if getting them out quickly would keep them from lumping in his throat, he spilled out his next words, "It was him. In everything he did, every move that he made, he had everyone under his power. Not with mere magic, but with a visceral understanding of the most basic of methods: the human mind. He didn't ever come out and say to his followers not to trust each other—that would have been too simple. It was in his every action. Questioning a person in front of everyone; singling someone out to commit to a mission, while never saying aloud the consequences of failure; slathering on high praise and great rewards, sowing jealousy and competitiveness... It was a class of magic all its own, high above the understanding of those he kept around him."

A breeze that must have missed this side of the tower wound through the parapets of the far side, setting one of the telescopes to squeaking in his pause.

He furtively glanced to the side before he could stop himself. She was staring mesmerized at his drink, catching points of moonlight as it moved. Or—it could have been his arm holding it that she was looking at, only the thin fabric of his shirt sleeve keeping her eyes at bay from what was beneath. That was the problem with letting her ask questions with no repercussions; they only led to more questions. Such as how he fit into this fold, how close had he managed to get, and what had he done to earn such a place...

"Most of them," spoke up a small voice. Her eyes came up to see that he hadn't reacted in any understanding of her words. She offered him a joyless smile. "It was above the understanding of most of them."

It was a kindness that he would have spat back out had it made it passed his stony glance. He turned away from her to drain his glass, knowing what she seemed incapable of understanding, or unwilling to: he was no better than anyone else who had fallen into the trap.

"I am better at surviving than most of them, at least," he said sourly.

"Well... surviving is what leaves room for everything else, yes?"

"Yes," he said with a heavy sigh that nearly hurt the bottom of his lungs, "everything else..."

There was a bittersweet silence, wherein he got to enjoy a few moments of letting his mind slip to the same smooth, velvety black as the surroundings. Until, at last his words seemed to have been extrapolated upon, and he was broken out of his freedom.

"Else...? Hold on... You said you had been slacking at your job... So, if this man was still carrying on with everything because of all that, because there are loonies who still want to win some weird faithful servant competition, then..."

"Then I still need to be doing my job," he delivered as a firm verdict.

"No!" Freya said with disbelief. "The war is—he's dead! There's no reason this could be—"

"Do you know who my friends were? In school, afterward?"

She gaped at him, then around as if said people were going to suddenly manifest on the rooftop and she could take them out one by one.

"It does not matter," he went on, his arms feeling too heavy even for the wine glass suddenly, "whether or not they have a master. People are still being brought in on trial and locked up. And either way, they will always have their traditionally held beliefs and a need to trample people to raise themselves up. What do you think someone like that was doing in a Ministry position to begin with? Who do you think put him there? I can't stay apart for so long like this again. I've already cut it too close—"

"Use me."

He blinked at her, his face stretching for the first time from its taut lack of expression. "What?"

"Take me with you," she said more forcefully, flapping her hands at him as if to usher him off the very tower, making him dance away. "We did it once, and I did a good job then! You're not doing this alone, Severus, I won't let you!"

"I—never implied I was going anywhere right now," he said, bewildered and still twitchy to dodge her hands. She looked poised to either grab him up in a hug or attack him, and he wasn't sure which he was fearing more. As he watched in apprehension, holding his drink aloft before remembering it was empty and setting it down, she bit her lip, her face contorting.

"I want..."

"What...?" he cautiously prompted when she didn't continue.

It took a moment more of her worrying, but finally she raised her eyes, her shoulders tensing with a breath.

"I want to go on missions with you."

He stared at her. He hadn't been sure if he should have been encouraging whatever this was, but it had seemed better to know whatever doom it might be rather than it being hidden and dangerous. And yet, out in the open, it was indeed something wild. He was still trying to wrap his head around her asking to be used again as a prop in whatever unlikely dire situation that she was imagining where a fake Imperius Curse would be warranted, and could do no more than blink his eyes.

"Perhaps..." she continued, "well, perhaps we could tell Albus now—now that nothing bad has happened. Then maybe we wouldn't have to sneak around as much."

He opened his mouth, the words forming mechanically, "As much... The job still requires mostly that."

"Right," she said with an elastic smile that rebounded just as tight. "Right... but... what do you think?"

"You want to go out again?"

"Well, on a real job. Not like this."

It was true that they had plotted around the headmaster, having to work their timing correctly to catch the Ministry man while he was still at work, but also avoid a time when Dumbledore would be around to feel out their absence from the castle in that way that he had. Freya had been dramatically torn, admitting that she knew he would be away for lunch, while Severus had been happy to supply that he was well accustomed to dodging Albus Dumbledore and it was nothing to feel guilty about.

But this had been a random happening born of a noxious combination of his stressors and perhaps a bit of an excessive need to prove himself right.

"It's just that I think you're wrong," she continued when his silence lingered on. Finally, she dared look him in the eye to deliver her proclamation. "About going it alone. It was more distracting with you there... but... it wasn't worse."

The familiar sounding pattern wasn't lost on his ears. He had often downplayed how much better things were with her in this way. She had no need, in his mind, to be doing this tactic though. Not when they agreed so wholeheartedly.

"You're right." His voice was quiet, his eyes on hers unmoving so that she could read his sincerity. "We should talk to him. I think it has been long enough since he's restricted you."

"Well... quite," she agreed, adding a firm, "here, here," before realizing she needed to get a refill if she was going to be making new toasts.

He watched her sort out a fresh glass, feeling more than a little apprehension to see her drinking even more, making sure to check that he not follow suit any further. If he had to, he would accidentally tip the whole bottle off the tower.

It wasn't just the worry of uninhibited alone time with her. Not so far as alcohol was concerned, anyway. He had just agreed, and even encouraged, that which he would have found wholly intolerable just days ago. Being crammed into close quarters with her, creeping around in the dead of night, possibly even necessitating sharing quarters on longer trips... Wine was definitely required for this slowly sinking reality, at least.

He supposed it was like ripping off a bandage, or like that trick that World Cup class Quidditch players did, falling from one broom to land far below on another. One might start out their journey with some sensible, straight-forward goals in mind, a real practicality, and then, after countless sleepless nights, a handful of arguments too thick to parse, and a moment of being at the end of one's wit, you find yourself jumping off your broom hundreds of feet in the air and leaving reason to the clouds because you've well and truly gone mad.

It wasn't something that he could have explained if asked, not without some very long pauses. He wasn't even entirely sure he wanted to think about it too much at the moment. The only way in which he could have possibly made sense of it to another person would be... the same way in which he had shared the antidote instructions and the location of the man she needed to follow earlier. Wordless, but absolute. Containing every ounce of information with no room for any detail to be left out. For no summary could amount to what he kept picturing in his mind: that fiery look of adventure and thrill that had lit her face and transformed that dark broom cupboard irrevocably.

"Need a refill as well?"

He lowered the glass from his lips, looking down in surprise to find that he had picked the empty thing back up again. He thought it over for only a second, declaring it was well passed time he had a decent break.

She topped off both their glasses, but didn't do more than put hers under her nose. Finally, she dropped the transparent edge from her lips.

"To criminally good friends," she said with a hearty ring over the otherwise quiet night.

"To being criminally insane," he chimed in a much lower voice, and then innocently raised his brows with his glass firmly over his mouth when she shot him a look. "Sorry, was that not what you said?"

"No, that sounds about right," she confirmed icily. She seemed to second guess herself, however, and peered back over at him. "Why did you just agree to that? I had a whole argument prepared and everything, you know. Been rehearsing for months."

"Sorry to spoil your fun..." Abruptly, he asked, "How likely did you think it was that we would need to use that little trick of yours?"

"Mm... Not likely," she admitted. "The cloak was nice, and I trusted your backups, but there was always the chance you might get caught trespassing... There aren't many ways to communicate through magical tools of imprisonment. It would have been good to be able to land on your shoulder and have a silent chat before you got arrested, the way Albus and I do it. Figure our way out of it with me as an excuse. Something like that. I know it would have to be a very specific situation for it to happen, but, well, one such situation had just happened, and it didn't seem smart to not keep such a good tool at—"

"That's why."

Her face softened as she was drawn from her explanation, blinking around at him. In answer to her continued confusion, with the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth, he looked her up and down; from her straightened posture, to her fingers thoughtfully tugging forward a lock of hair.

"What's why?" she demanded, her arms crossing and her body turning defensively as if his gaze had scandalized her.

"Because... I know that I have no chance of dying with you around."

She stared at him, shoulders bunching up more than ever, apparently mistrusting of such velvety words when delivered from his coolly satisfied expression. It only served to further please him as her hair spilled its weight over her shoulder and she hid her face.

"Yeah, well, we'll just see about that," she grumbled from behind her curtain. "Depends how you're treating me that week. And if you plan on making it up to me how you've been treating me this past one."

"I am."

She whipped her head around, her mask of hair flipping away to suddenly reveal sharp gold.

But he held his defensive posture, his eyes under his furrowed brow going from the wine bottle, to his twice-filled glass, to her up and down once more. He didn't know what she was talking about; he had been making it up to her by showing up to the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night in March at all.

"This," she gestured outward expansively, as if perhaps referring to the entire universe, "is not good enough. This doesn't count. We're celebrating not... well—not dying or getting arrested, and not fighting, I suppose. But I'm not just going to drink it away that you... you were..."

To avoid her pointing her wine precariously at him any further, he finished for her, "Being a little difficult?"

"A little?" she said, far too loudly for the hushed atmosphere. She gave an embarrassed glance around and retreated to a tiny mumbling voice which only her wine glass could amplify to audibility. "I know you apologized for however it was you treated me last year, but... it wasn't really fair, was it? I had no idea what you were apologizing for, it's not like I remember..."

It was his turn to dart his eyes around the open space for some kind of reprieve. He didn't want to be confirming any more of his pessimistic hypotheses; he had been wondering for a while now if she had ever written down in detail a single one of their more emotive arguments, and if that had affected her current ease into friendliness towards him. She had implied that her journal made him out to be difficult, but nothing beastly.

"Maybe to you I would have been used to handling you like that," her voice mercilessly went on in a whisper, "but to me, you were just suddenly... so cruel."

"If I could apologize properly, I would do it," he snapped, discomforted.

"You could apologize properly right now," she countered with sudden strength.

"Or," he said, grasping at whatever he could, "you could—for what you said the other day."

It didn't need clarifying; the guilt instantly washed over her face. She wavered under his advantage, not sharing his ability to squirm out from beneath it so easily.

"I... Alright, yes, of course," she sighed, throwing her hands up. She turned to lean onto the waist-height cutout in the wall, her head pointed down to the grounds below. "I'm sorry about that... I truly am. I know it was crossing a line to bring her up, I just—"

"Watch that you don't do it again."

"I'm not!" she said, throwing an earnest appeal up to him. At his impassive rely, he watched her eyes lowering once more, along with her drink, setting it down before she finally did spill it with all her arm waving. "I only... I... I just wanted you to talk to me. I thought I could snap it out of you or something—or at least make you mad enough that you'd argue with me. I would have preferred that to... the way you just shut me out. That honestly is what hurt the most..."

The clouds themselves might well have been audible in the silence that followed. The light breeze rolling them across the sky tickled the already raised hairs on the back of his neck and he shivered.

The movement alerted her to his otherwise frozen form, and she turned back. "Are you cold?"

She was too fast for his suddenly chugging brain, her face adopting a frown when he neglected to wipe his stunned expression off in time.

He was indeed cold. His robes, still half-translucent by the time classes had finished for the day, were hung up in his bedchambers, and his button-down shirt was little protection, even for one so acclimated to the cold as him. But really, this wasn't the issue.

Her words, echoing his own thoughts from the previous week, reverberated around in his head until his brain felt numb.

He felt as if he had just been informed of a class taught at Hogwarts on a particular branch of magic of which he had no knowledge; not the faintest hint. There existed some common, most basic skill that he had been deprived of out of sheer bumbling incompetence. That was the only explanation for how he had missed the possibility that Freya might just be experiencing anything close to what he had been—or anything at all. He had never even considered it through his temper.

In fact, hadn't someone told him a long time ago, during his school years, that he wasn't particularly adept at knowing what people were feeling? But he had dismissed it, as he of course already had all the necessary tools to read people's intentions, and was perfectly skilled at using them. He had forgotten all about that interaction until now...

Perhaps he really had been half-asleep through school.

It was only when Freya stepped towards him, hands reaching, that he snapped back to attention, taking a wide step back.

"What?" she said, palms going up in question. "I was going to warm you up."

"I know what you were going to do," he said defensively.

His shoulders abruptly gave a violent shiver, the wintery bite having settled firmly in after his moment of weakness. She raised a brow questioningly at him, and in answer, he roughly shoved his hand into his pocket; not for warmth, but for his wand to grant him some.

She darted forward before he could get a single spell off, the heat of her hand almost painful with how cold his own was. They wrestled—her clasping his wand hand in both of hers, before giving one up when it was pried off by him; her grabbing for this attacking hand, him holding it out of reach behind his back; and, finally—her settling her other hand instead on his chest, her determined face coming close to his, him promptly forgetting to not let her slip over his shoulder, down his arm, and capture his hand and him entirely.

"You've just got to be stubborn, haven't you," she said with a maliciously triumphant grin.

He had no mind to argue, his eyes overwhelmed with the work of documenting every bit of her sparkling features, thankful that the moon was there to give him a clearer view and wishing it could have accompanied them to the broom closet as well—while still attempting to keep up some semblance of a guise that he wasn't doing anything of the sort.

His eyes only lowered at her lead, going down to their hands as they relaxed, the fight no longer necessary. She eased his wand out of his one hand, and, in what felt to him like an attack on his person, poked it back into his pocket where it had been drawn.

Utilizing her new position of command, she directed their hands up closer to his chest, stepping up so that they formed a protective little alcove of sorts, though touching him no further than the wrist.

"Isn't this better...?"

He had a mind to ask her to clarify which part exactly, as just then he could have written a lengthy scroll arguing the philosophical definition of 'better,' but he was still experiencing difficulties with his tongue. And, when he regained composure, it seemed to find more pressing matters to discuss.

"I... am sorry."

"I don't want to hear it," she said with a stubborn raise of her chin. "I just want you to be nicer."

He deliberated, not confident if he should be making any proclamations.

"And," she continued, "be nicer to everyone."

That, he could remark on. "Everyone? That might eat into my free time..."

"Severus..." Her jaw was set as she gave him a hard look, unavoidable at their distance.

However, whether due to her insincerity of the emotion or the wine, she seemed unable to hold her grudge for long. Her expression softened and she delicately gathered up his hands with an adjusted grip, bringing them close to her face, and, after a moment's pause, exhaled a hot breath to further warm them. When he tugged against this in protest, he only earned himself a tighter grip and a planted peck upon the backs of his fingers.

"If it's niceness you want, could you not at least act like you deserve it?" he delivered with his usual amount of spike, finally wrenching free his hands.

She let them go like she was giving the shreds of a letter to the wind to be carried out to sea, the taunting grin whisked from her features. He was exasperated to see this disconnection of them instantaneously bring on a weepy expression, feeling as if he was being made to relive his night in the hospital wing. He knew it was coming and that there would be no use having another round of shoving. As if to absolve himself of having not quite uttered an agreement to her terms of niceness, he acquiesced in a physical manner instead.

There was a split second wherein he caught a glimpse of her heartfelt surprise as he cautiously twitched his arms up in open posture—before he was collided into as if in earnest to knock the wind out of him.

The time to protest passed with her fingers pressing into his back, arms fully wrapped around his frame. It was a relief to reclaim the mask that her involved embrace offered, safe from her witnessing anything cross his face with his head over her shoulder. But the fact that this was necessary had a nullifying effect. It felt different from her panicked reassurance of his survival by holding onto him bodily, and surely different from her casual gestures of closeness.

A time when the grounds and castle weren't thrown into darkness but cast all in white came to his mind...

"I missed you," she mumbled against him, with all the raw and unabashed truth in her voice that he was constantly both unnerved and captivated by.

He stood stock still, wavering only internally as his eyes bore a hole in the horizon. It wasn't clear if it was the warmth being graciously imparted back into him livening up his pulse, or residual adrenaline from earlier in the day—or just the wine—but that little closet they had hid in came down around the pair of them and locked him into a world that seemed all his own.

His arms moved unconsciously, the only thing in his head the sound of his own heartbeat, and then he was returning the feeling that he could never dare utter aloud. Her hair at her waist was slipped passed, the cinched and thick fabric of her robes feeling apart from the world around, their warmth mocking the chilly climate.

His mouth opened without any success at first. Then, "I missed you as well," was crushed out of him even as his heart warned of impending doom for confessing something so foolish. It had only been two handfuls of days fighting... Perhaps a couple weeks of not talking much if he added in his recovery time... Maybe a month spent unable to look her in the eye... There really was no need to let on how dramatic it had felt...

But it was a dramatic feeling just then, one that made sense of her clinging to him after his near-death experience. He finally had something tangible and solid that fit perfectly within his arms and swept the surface of all his doubts and his contorted mind. There was no room here, no space between their bodies, for any fear of rejection or humiliation.

Just a little... Just a little he let his hands squeeze tight to pull her in.

"I missed—" his mouth tried to bite back the hushed words, but they poured out, "—your song, as well..."

He felt more than heard her intake of breath. And when she pulled back to look at him, taking the heat of her cheek with her, it was a nostalgic kind of pain.

There was no time for concealment, as it was imperative that she understand the gravity if he was to be going down this road—and, as every clue rapidly adding up in his mind indicated, he had indeed shoved himself wholly out from the cover of the trees and into all the heavy, vast openness of a railroad track. The train must have been a ways out, however, because while he heard the screaming tingle of it somewhere behind his head, the impossibly thrilling heart-pumping feeling of running down the track was all he felt.

Far from steamrolling right over him, she was blinking at him in surprise. When he showed no sign of moving, even with his lungs protesting at how long he held his breath, she finally seemed to realize she had to be the one to take the torch from him.

Her forehead crinkling, she whispered, "But... I thought..."

"It's worse," he said in a rush to successfully dodge through this without any casualties. "It's worse without it."

She looked unconvinced. "Do you think you could... explain it to me? Before I agree to anything..."

It was with a great and strenuous effort that he did not package up his tongue in a neat little bow with the single syllable of 'no.'

"I... can't."

Her expression, previously brightly curious, drooped to a grimace lacking in patience.

"Severus."

"It's... complicated."

She let her head fall to one side, equally unimpressed.

His eyes scurried away to a point behind her... and then came back with a newly enlightened idea.

"May I have some more wine first?"

That cracked her steely demeaner, a grin stretching against the tightness of her mouth, and she let out an exasperated sigh as her head plonked forward against his shoulder.

"You really are impossible, you know that, right?"

He frowned out over the edge of the tower. "I'm..." But this time his lip stayed firmly clamped down upon. If she wasn't going to see it, then he wouldn't hold her hand and drag her to it.

But, as his spine was set shivering, her hands dragging out from behind his back and up to his shoulders, he saw when her face followed last in her movement that she did at least seem to understand this. His own hands at her waist had softened, poised more to shove her away if she had forced passed his barriers, but now he felt he might have to do so more to defend from her unwavering eyes.

It wasn't freedom from the question, but the expression she steeled before him was an image of her earlier readiness to do no more than listen.

"Try me."

It wasn't an easy task. The multitude of prompts he had prepared for weeks jumbled themselves together in a fit of last-minute unpreparedness. He licked his lips, and to his credit, almost made it to looking her in the eye. Her cheek, looking smooth in the cold moonlight, was as close as he could get.

"The... routine... is comfortable," he got out, hearing the patchwork of his own words but incapable of neatly sewing them together without going on, which was just as dangerous. "It fits my schedule—and helps keep things... at a decent pace—"

"It helps you sleep?"

His gaze drew up the extra inch needed to look directly into hers. His lungs relaxed at this gracious reprieve, remembering she had already made this half-true observation herself months ago, and he nodded.

"That's all?" she queried, peering into his eyes.

He nodded once more, slower this time, as if it would deliver a more final impact.

But she was only leaning in closer, her eyes dangerously searching deeper, her hands inching around his neck to hold him, and he had to raise his chin to keep his distance where his eyes were failing to be freed from her stare.

She stopped inches from his face. The line of her mouth slowly turned up in a smirk, and he had the smacking realization of what she was going to say a second too late. The word was never vocalized, but he watched it reenacted upon her lips, her tongue tauntingly flicking it out at him.

Liar.

Although she had caught him, and although every other time she had gladly taken the high ground afforded, this time he was caught off guard by not needing to even raise his. Her head hung down, concealing the waning smile he had only gotten to briefly see.

It was a voice so small it was almost drowned in the hollow of the night that said, "I'll do it..."

Her arms hung heavy around his neck, but he dared not slouch. He suddenly felt as if he had found someone lost at sea and half-drowned—or, at the very least, she was looking to exemplify that she still could not hold any amount of alcohol in her body without passing out on him.

His arms closed more tightly around her. He wasn't sure what he was protecting her from, or if he should just imagine he was thanking her. Either way, he felt in answer as her arms gained strength and pulled her chin up to his shoulder. The faintest scent of her hair, or perhaps of a perfume hidden beneath it at her neck, stopped his breathing. It was an odd little detail that he hadn't considered before; how much closer she felt against him with her head not at his chest.

In a breath that he could scarcely hear his own voice in, he whispered out that which had had no place within any of his plans: "It hurts..."

He felt her shift as if to look at him, or perhaps thinking he had meant their position, but he held her ever more securely in place.

"It hurts... in a very precise way. It's easier to... take it like a medicine. If I could bottle your song, I would. But, as it stands..."

It was moments before either of them stirred; enough that he let her go this time as she pulled back. He was calm and cool before her.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said with trepidation.

He stared back into her eyes. "I would appreciate it if you would."

Her wince was wavering, as if she couldn't decide if she should back out or commit further as the situation seemed more dire.

"Just," he spoke up, "promise me you won't be coming inside again."

The humor found its way back into her eyes at last with a reluctant grimacing smile, and he helped her along with a smirk of his own. She was blinking sleepily as she shook her head, but, to his surprise, after her hand left his neck to brush her hair from her face, she replaced it.

"Severus..." she sighed. But apparently the ease had not entirely settled in her, and her smile faltered with whatever words she could not summon. He studied her soft expression, close enough for him to see every small change in the angle of her lips, the tilt of her brows, and the color of her cheek, apprehension building. He could have sworn, marginally different from the height at which she had been turning her eyes down in thought all night, her eyes now had stopped at his mouth—and then dashed away entirely.

"I... want something in return," she said at last, though only speaking to his chest.

A hint of doubt crept in. He had thought they had both been wanting this, but it seemed she needed a trade.

But he needed it. If it were to stop, if he were to be left like this, with no way of expending his pain, carrying out his devoted retribution... Then he might be in danger of setting free that which he could never atone for...

It wasn't so easy as him sucking the venom from his own veins, conducting it like little mice following in neat order after each note of music. It was a cacophonous chaos on his own. A tidal wave that built but never crashed, leaving him numb and frozen. He needed to feel it down into his core, wrench it open, get it out.

She certainly had a way of drawing things out of him that he could not. And an even deeper part of him, one he hoped she would never detect, missed that it was her song that could affect him so.

He hung on her words, waiting in the balance.

However, it was no note of her most striking music that shot through his chest just then.

"I would... like you to give my memories back."

---

_—***—_

"On and on
I've been waiting on your open invitation
In the rising cold
Don't you feel alone

Pull me up
On either side
Don't leave me standing alone in the light"

B.R.M.C. - Open Invitation

---

cessante ratione legis, cessat lex ipsa

[Latin: when the reason for a law ceases, the law itself ceases.] -OxfordReference