Chapter 17
Second to living, his fluent occupation has become answering to summons when and as they appear. That being so, arriving to Minerva's doorstep a little later than he was supposed to, irks him so, that he presents himself with a defensive frown rather than his usual countenance as he raises his hand to knock on the door.
It isn't his fault that he's showing up only now, although seeing as he cannot tell Minerva why he was detained, it's better that he arms himself with a defence before she can rightfully chastise him for not respecting her time. In a short moment after his knock, the door swings back and showing her silently unimpressed.
'You show up, after all,' she flatly greets.
'I was detained,' he responds, though he will not get into the specifics of what held him where he was.
'Come in,' she invites, gesturing for him to enter, and when he does, closes the door after him before leading him deeper into her house.
Were this another, less "summoned" time, he would have visually acquainted himself with her home, taking the liberty to look here and there, to feed his own curiosity about her home life and not just follow her along into the heart of her sitting room.
'I'm sure that you remember Mr. Weasley,' she says, just barely looking back at him as she comes to a stop a step or two away from the waiting young man.
'Mr. Snape,' Weasley professionally calls, just then taking a long step to meet him and then offer his hand in greeting.
He takes the offered hand, coolly acknowledging, 'Mr. Weasley,' before passing a questioning look to Minerva on his side.
'Have a seat,' she offers in response.
He would rather decline the offer in all honesty, however, this is Minerva, and she surely hasn't called him here for tea, and least of all with Weasley.
'Thank you for meeting with me,' Weasley begins after they have all settled into their respective seats, looking from him to her. 'As you well know, the Ministry has been going through a transformation since the Minister's death two nights ago. In the process of reshuffling duties and responsibilities, a rather fortunate promotion befell on me, which lead me to discover something in my new office.'
Not yet properly curious, he breathes on as he had been, simply waiting for the first of the Weasleys to ever be a Head Prefect to carry on with his unnecessary foreword. While true, he only received the owl a mere two hours ago, and also true, the need to know why brought him here, he really is in no hurry to hear whatever required his presence; today, at least after the long interruption from earlier, he has enough time to waste on nothing and everything.
'In ordinary circumstances,' he picks up speaking again, 'I would have had to submit a request to the corresponding Department Head, and they would have had to pass it along to the Minister's secretary before it was approved, but as we are passing through a transitory phase at the Ministry, I have the direct authority to make these sorts of calls.'
He stops again, perhaps to allow them the time to bestow their pride on him for how fast he managed to acquire such grand responsibility of the Ministry, but at least from him, the young man will get nothing. From Minerva either, evidently, for she remains just as still as he is, no sound coming from her, which causes Weasley to clear his throat, look down at the open scroll of parchment on his lap and then up at them again.
Really, he wonders, just what did the boy convince himself would happen here? That they would behave as his surrogate family and beam at his achievements? Does his family not affirm him enough?
'As I was saying,' he decides to continue, 'I discovered a second portion, a hasty addendum by the date of it, of the Last Will and Testament belonging to one Mr. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, in which he names only the two of you.'
Now that news is certainly news to him, so much so that he turns his attention to Minerva, uncaring if he looks desperate doing so. The bit about a second portion is especially gripping to him, to his incomprehension. Why hadn't it ever crossed his mind that Albus would have left a Will behind, considering his stature in the community?
'You knew about this?' he asks her, but instead of giving him an answer right away, she slowly rises to her feet as though prompted by something unseen.
'May I ask that you remain seated, Professor,' Weasley kindly requests. 'I will not take long to finish.'
'Minerva?' he presses, completely disregarding the young man's words and standing himself. 'Did you know about this?'
As if just now hearing his voice, her head drifts in his direction, their eyes squarely meeting and oddly, and for that brief moment of connection, a torrent of sadness washes over him, staggering him so deeply that he breaks their connection by hastily turning away.
His initial query had come from a place of suspicion, wondering if Minerva and Albus orchestrated this meeting with the aim of roping him into yet another thing, although meeting with her battling face, he only feels inexplicable sadness.
'This is the first that I am hearing of it,' she quietly confesses to his turned head. 'Albus... He... Believe me, Severus, I am as clueless as you are, if not more surprised by it all.'
He returns his attention to Minerva, except just then, Weasley sparingly admonishes, 'Please, have your seats and let us carry on,' which acts as reason enough for her to sit, and he, left with nothing to do but also retakes his seat.
'Thank you,' Weasley appreciates with a nod. 'I will read it exactly as it reads, so please pay attention. To Minerva Kathleen McGonagall...' he pauses to look at her briefly and then only continues with, 'I pass on the delicate task of caring for Severus Tobias Snape. He was, and remains most vital to me, Minerva. Please do not forsake him. He might fight you on certain things, but never forsake him. Be advised that you might dislike his courses of action, specifically to do with an alliance of which both you and I are aware, but again, never forsake him.'
Stopping there, clearly unable to mind his own affairs, Weasley looks at him first, his face inexpressive and then probably not finding what he had been hoping to, turns his eyes to Minerva. Copying Weasley, he also looks at her, who in turn looks at him rather than at Weasley. Her face gives everything about her feelings away, that she heard the instruction clearly, understood it as well, but is apparently battling with the very fact that Albus would leave her something – most of all to do with him.
'Did you know?' she's the one to ask this time around.
'No,' he answers, making her nod sombrely, though he is the one to encourage Weasley, saying, 'Carry on, Mr. Weasley.'
'Yes, thank you,' the younger man accepts. 'To Severus Tobias Snape...' he pauses again as he did before, looking at him, for his portion in Albus' will.
'Go ahead, Mr. Weasley,' he commands in as soft a tone as his distaste for being assessed can allow him to use.
'I leave my promise,' Weasley picks up right away, 'an overdue penance, if you will, Severus. Much more than this, I should have for you, but alas, I cannot give, and for that reason, know that when he has returned from his short trip, Fawkes will walk with you for the rest of your days. He's rather fond of clover mites, take note.'
'Fawkes?' Minerva gasps right as he whispers, 'The bird?' to the air in front of him.
So then – just so his mind can reach full comprehension of what is going on here - when Albus said that he wouldn't leave him alone, that was what he meant, the bird?
'I unfortunately do not have Fawkes with me,' Weasley answers both of their exclamations, 'but I at least felt that you had the right to know what Mr. Dumbledore wanted before he died.'
He hears the young man speak and he's also quite aware of the two looking at him, it's only that where he should be concerned about their eyes on him enough to mask his fragility at the moment, he's truly having trouble deciding how he feels about being left with the comfort of a magical, extremely loyal bird, and because of that, he blankly stares at the space in front of him.
Why would Albus do this to him? Well, he knows why, but still, why? And why is he this struck about it? Briefly, he considers if it's the fact he's always loved owls, but never having one because his parents couldn't afford one-
'Severus?' Minerva gently tries for his attention, except, too concerned with himself, he doesn't heed her call - he instead carelessly makes as though positively vacant and deaf to her voice.
What does it matter now, to hold himself to proper composure and indifference, when it seems that everything to do with this meeting will unexpectedly hit him as soon as it's announced? He has the strength to withstand even the hardest of things, especially news about Albus, but the truth is, he doesn't want to use that strength. Not at the moment, no.
'Thank you, Mr. Weasley,' Minerve says, his eyes noticing her getting onto her feet. 'If that is all, thank you very much for your correspondence.'
'Of course, Professor,' he eagerly agrees, rising as well. 'I should be getting back to the Ministry. Excuse me, then. Have a good day, Professors.'
'Good day to you as well, Mr. Weasley,' she offers back and as Weasley gathers himself to leave, she makes no other move, patiently waiting for the younger man to close her door, thus leaving them by themselves.
'Severus,' she says again, still not making a move, although something in her tone makes him want to draw himself from his blank state and give her as much attention as she apparently wants from him.
He cannot, though, he reminds himself. For once, can he simply feel deeply in front of another person without reserve? And Minerva… He's apparently left to her care, so surely, she can afford him just a little time to fit everything into his mind. Reasoning with that to himself, he looks her way at last, hoping that she will understand his silent plea.
'Albus did this?' she asks, her words something close to a disbelieving whisper as she steps to him.
'I don't know what he was thinking,' he automatically responds, though not necessarily meaning to, or to shrug, for that matter.
'He never said anything to me,' she says to him. 'I knew that you two met, all three of us even met on occasion, but you two were really so close?'
For this, he must pull out of pretending to be lost in thought to see Minerva's face through all of it.
Him and Albus, close?
The idea itself could pass for a clever joke, seeing as never once did he feel that they were close - not in any way. Though the beginning of their relationship was made up of mutually extreme need, that need never bloomed into something that brought them closer than they needed to trust in each other. He cared for the man, and without a doubt, the man also grew to care for him in his own quiet, occasionally intrusive way, but that didn't sum up to any closeness between them. He was simply the person who had the role to provide useful things, be they information, spells, antidotes and lessons, and if that is how closeness can be defined as, then yes, they were close.
Therefore, his dry, 'Not much closer than you and Rubeus,' of a reply is as much of a snap as he manages to give her.
'Obviously, he held you in high regard,' she refutes incredulously. 'He left you Fawkes. Do you know how he acquired that creature? It was right around the time that he –'
'Albus never shared anything with me,' he stops her, the confession weighing his heart down as he shakes his head in denial. 'We were never so close. I will get going now, if you don't object.'
Positively taken aback, as though he attempted to slap her, she cries, 'But to leave so abruptly? We've yet much to discuss concerning this.'
'Among ourselves, we will get nowhere, I assure you,' curtly leaves his mouth. 'Get whatever answers you need from his portrait, as will I, once I have returned to school.'
'Severus, please,' she pleads and possibly, if he wasn't beginning to move away from her, she would have reached out to keep him from going anywhere.
'Minerva,' he pleads, only omitting the word 'please' for his own composure.
'Oh, well, yes,' she accepts, though still sounding uncertain, 'I suppose that I can't push you to answer on Albus' behalf.'
No, she can't, and neither will he give her the chance to keep doing so. Clearly overcome by what she heard, she doesn't seem to grasp that she shouldn't continue to ask him about Albus while he is trying to answer himself about Albus' decisions and because of that he gives her a short look to then turn away with a soft, 'Good day.'
26Chapters
He'd planned that coming home, he would remove his formal wear, then leisurely prepare himself a normal lunch to make up for missing last night's dinner, this morning's breakfast as well, and then when was fed and satisfied, he would rest the remainder of the day. His plan had been to cleanse his mind from this morning's impromptu call to the Manor and the revelation from his visit to Minerva's, but with a woman seated on his doorstep, it looks like he'll have to add one more burdening stop before he can rest.
'Drunk or not, do get away from my home missus,' he says as he reaches his door, and her by extension, barely glancing at her.
She may be well dressed, well, that is better dressed than he is used to seeing people from this area dress, but that doesn't in the least mean that he is inclined to spare her any attention. He does, however, having grown up here, after all, have enough empathy to allow her the time to hastily shuffle onto her feet and leave her a little time to gather, then clutch her small bag close to her before he urges her to move away again.
'I want you away from my home today, missus,' he pushes, though in reality, his eyes cannot help it fully look her over in her entirety – she's not one typically from this area, he concludes; she just doesn't fit the description that he's seen all of his life here, his own description included.
'No, you don't understand,' she scrambles to say to him, and to magic, if something about her desperation isn't a tad familiar to him... 'I'm not really this person.'
With unbelieving, narrowed eyes, he studies her face, unwilling to extend his empathy further than understanding that she might be going through a hard time and mightn't necessarily need an angry man shouting at her. Studying her so, he settles on her either being a liar or delusional, because neither her voice, nor her face and body are recognisable to him.
What he does know is that every so often, no matter the time of day, some wayward person would appear close to his house. It's one of the finer joys of living in a rundown slump, where only the lowly frequent, being forced to resort to verbally clearing them away before they drew more attention to his home than he wanted to have. This young woman as well, though might not appear drunk, is equally unwanted.
'Wonderful,' he remarks, softly gesturing to the side with his left hand, 'now get away, I said.'
Instead of moving like he wants her to, she scoots closer to him, that action making him stare at her with cautioning eyes, more than intrigued to see just who exactly she believes herself to be exempted from leaving him in peace.
'No, it's me,' she strains, her eyes boring into his as she apparently wills for him to hear her say.
'I do not know you,' he ascertains.
'You do,' she insists. 'It's me. I got your address from Dumbledore's office and then I used Polyjuice potion. It's really me.'
It cannot be, he denies in the beginning.
Polyjuice potion, yes, he can understand and accept to be masking her behind that tone, that unfamiliar voice and those strange and new eyes, however, is he really so easy to deceive?
'Miss?' he wonders aloud, nonetheless, stilling everything about and within him just in case, but with her immediate nod of an answer, he comes alive at once, taking hold of her, unlocking his door and sweeping her inside in a fast series of spells and movements.
Once safely inside, he quickly passes her through his sitting room, rushing her up the stairs and to his bedroom where he can better contain her and then confirm that it really is her. A small part of him tries to tell him that he is being tricked by any Death Eater who may have spoken to Draco about his school life, but with the larger part of him willing to take the chance that it's her, he finds it quite easily to usher her through his bedroom door and move her to sit on his bed.
He chose the exact spot that she had occupied the last time, and despite her disguise, seeing her seated there once again is like deeply penetrative salve to aching muscles beneath the skin; so deep in its healing nature it is. He studies her well for a moment, because of that, in part wondering what she had been thinking to make herself look like that, and the other part anxious to see her real face.
'Explain,' he requests, eyeing her carefully as he battles the resistance to accept her current appearance.
'I have something for you,' she tells him, and still her voice is alien to him – he doesn't like it. 'I forgot to give it to you the night of the wedding.'
No, decides for once and for all, aided by her quietly waiting and unfamiliar expression, his tolerance, as accommodating with her as it can be, will not stretch to include this falsity. He absolutely refuses to engage with her when she looks like that.
'When does that wear off?'
'In twenty-five minutes,' she answers, trying to stand up just then, but he quickly holds up his hand to stop her from doing so.
'Don't move from there,' he advises, instead advancing only the precise amount needed to bring him close to her.
But how he doesn't like that look on her. When it has faded, he will tell her never to look different in front of him again. Just as she always is, tears and expressions decorating her face or not, he wants to continue seeing her, never as someone else.
'I wanted –'
'Don't speak,' he halts her, also swiftly turning away from her as if that will effectively keep her from speaking.
Turned towards the open door, he considers leaving her as long as it takes to return to normal, although also considering how much of an effort she made to find him without being caught out, he switches his thoughts at the very last second, opting to remain and wait for her – it's what he ought to do. So he begins the wait, turning back her way and then wordlessly moving along to his clothing cupboard, where he leisurely opens both doors.
With his cupboard with open, he slowly gets to removing his cloak, taking as much time as he can in order to do away with it. When the last of his cloak makes it off his body and into his cupboard, he dares to turn back, but meeting with her disguise still, he returns to his cupboard, telling himself that he will have to wait some more.
To bear waiting some more, he starts to remove the long-sleeved jacket that's securely tucking his body in, his fingers making work on the top button then slowly moving onto the next button in line. The wait is killing him, of course, for never in his life has he looked forward to something entirely pleasing to him, although with the small distraction of his buttons, he will pretend that the wait is nothing.
Through the wait, though, somewhere between his fifth button and still many remaining, he glances her way again, only this time, she tries to speak before he can look away.
'If –'
'Not yet,' he deeply commands, because curses to potions, and because of potions, he will continue to wait.
But even so, he will have none of that speaking from her. That voice isn't hers - he doesn't want to hear it coming from her. To drown it out, frustrated, he returns to his task, gradually reaching the conclusion of his button trail, and when he does, pulls in a long, composing breath, biting down hard on his teeth as the question about how much longer he has to wait, floats inside his mind. It bothers him so that he has her there and yet very distanced from her. He doesn't want to continue bearing it, but there remains no other way around it, and so he carries on waiting, deliberately breathing in again, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving himself completely exposed in only trousers and a shirt.
'What were you thinking?' he quietly questions as his hands fiddle with his jacket for a bit, although not hearing an answer from her, he drops the jacket and quickly marches over to where she is and stands directly in front of her.
He's seen Polyjuice potion in action before, but this… No one ever prepared him for the intimate case of that potion covering up someone that he knows. Let alone someone dear to him.
'How much longer?' he questions with a frown, completely feeling at the limit of his patience.
'Six minutes now,' she replies.
Too long still!
Curses to the first person who ever thought to brew that potion. He usually has better control of his patience than this, but there's something inside of him that just can't stand this restrictive disguise on her.
'What were you thinking?' he asks again.
'I said that I have something for you,' she answers hurriedly. 'I thought that it would be better if I looked different. And I wanted to see you.'
She wanted to see him.
He's thankful for that, it's only that more than he can indulge in the resulting feeling of that, he can't stand to look at that disguise in front of him, and so he closes his eyes and shakes his head. In a manner, because that whole appearance of hers is that of a stranger's, her words sting him; a stranger shouldn't answer his questions, telling him beautiful things of that nature when they have no prior relationship. Still, he is a foolish man, one who knows the truth buried beneath, which is why he returns his gaze to her, but not without moving his head in disapproval at what he finds.
'I couldn't just come as myself,' she tries to explain. 'It isn't safe to walk around as myself. They're all looking for Harry and if I'm found, that could be dangerous.'
She is dangerous, hasn't she realised that by now? Shooting her a quick warning look, he instead wants to distract himself with something, anything, that will help to pass the time. Her eyes follow his movements, he notes from the corners of his eyes. When he crosses his arms and when he uncrosses them, she watches him. When more of his patience dwindles and he, looking to hold onto the little that remains, moves his right hand to begin rolling up the sleeve on his left arm, she still watches him. Four folds expose nearly all of his forearm to her, not quite reaching to show his elbow, only making his Mark completely visible to her.
He has no shame in showing it to her, neither has he any thought to wonder what might be going through her mind as he begins working on the right sleeve, directly looking at her after every fold just to make sure that he doesn't miss her disguise wearing off. It still hasn't worn off after the fourth fold, which is both an inconvenience and a soft blow to him, that after every hardship that he's had in his life, this is the one that feels distinctly unbearable to continue with. Her reasoning is perfect, she never could have waited for him as herself outside of his door, and yet, why did she have to choose the slightly-more thorough method? He could scold her for being so thorough.
No such thing will come from him, though.
In place of scolding her, he brings his hands up to begin opening up the buttons of his shirt, and because his eyes on her, he sees hers follow his movements, widening at the sight. A reaction had not been what he wanted from her, although now that he's gotten one from her, a flicker of something – he isn't sure what yet - sparks inside of him, making him abandon further opening his shirt and rather do away with the space between them. He will no longer busy himself with things, he tells himself as he crouches to be as close to level to her as possible. The picture of it all is a wonder to him, really; this is the second time that she's effortlessly brought him as close to on his knees as possible for her.
Going on as she is, is there anything that she won't pull out from him before he dies?
'You shouldn't look at me like that,' she quietly says like she shouldn't be saying something like that in the first place. 'It's making me feel different,' she adds, looking down afterwards.
She certainly looks different, he mentally replies.
And no, she shouldn't talk, not yet.
He dislikes searching the eyes that aren't hers like this, but in the waiting moment, anxious to see her natural hair, face and eyes, he does. It's that she's awoken a loud man in him, compared to the inexpressive man that his father, his tormentors and Lily taught him to be. What's more, her acceptance of the man he learned to be, ignites a raw desire for the simple things. And then that she knows nothing about his Mark and his work concerning that, yet views him as a normal person -
'One minute now,' she says, bursting through his thoughts, which makes him part his lips to draw in some air.
Sixty, he begins the countdown in his head. Fifty-nine, he continues, pacing himself with perfectly measured breaths so as not to lag or speed through the numbers. By the time that he gets to thirty, he brings his arms out to brace on either side of her, because there will be no such thing as her leaving that post once she's reverted to herself. She will sit there, and he will look at her as he should, for as long as he wants to. Precisely on time, though not soon enough for his liking, the last of the minute passes by, bringing with it her transfiguration before his eyes. Intently, he watches her morph back to herself, as every detail of her disguise fades to give way to her true complexion and natural appearance.
And aah, there she is, appearing just as she's taken to lately; staggeringly lovely to him.
'Can I speak now?' she asks most quietly.
Why so quietly, he doesn't know, though neither is he particularly bothered by it. To tell the truth, her softness rather augments his appreciation of her in a way that he hasn't known to feel before, and all at once, he simply cannot be close enough to her, neither can he let the moment pass without savouring every piece to do with it. That is how without giving her an answer, he presses his palms onto either side of her on his bed for support, and with his mind made up, leans his face towards hers.
'Do you object?' he asks, moving his face even closer and his eyes searching hers with the time that he is – there is no rush to this for him.
Thank divinity that she shakes her head, welcoming his advance and approving it all in one. Already knowing that she wouldn't refuse him, he didn't ask her to get her permission, but really to have her caress his ego. Still, though, he needs the satisfaction of hearing her profess it, so can she say it?
'Do you?' he gently prods, following it with leaning in until his nose forces him to change the angle his head.
'I don't,' she lets out, part whining about it, though mostly pleading with him, and if that wasn't enough, she moves her face so that there's no space left between them, her lips softly touching his first.
It's magic, literal, bone tingling magic, the touch of the lips and the effect immediately transports him to a moment from his past dreams, where she would lean in to kiss him and his own lips would twitch at first, surprised by her daring. His dreams never lit him up this way, he reminds himself just as his mind begins to race in a way that he never expected could happen. It's as if his mind just kicked into panic, now scrambling everywhere all at once, and the only thing that brings him some semblance of grounding, is her opening her lips over his as her arms sneak in between them to then wrap around his neck.
This girl is magic itself...
It's much too easy on her part, receiving him like this and the result of his lip falling into the open of her mouth makes him smile at her eagerness. He would have waited and loved to see just how eager she is, but this being his kiss, he takes the initiative to gently slip one lip of hers between his, tentatively looking to taste her for a few seconds, and then pulls back to look into her eyes. As he pulls back, she makes a protesting sound as her arms tighten around his neck, nearly strangling him, in fact, and before he knows what's happening, her legs are tightly wound around him and she's burying her face into his neck.
'What's this?' he struggles to get out, her grip all around him being inescapable, if not more stunning than her overall behaviour.
'Mhm-mhm,' she protests again, sending soft vibrations on the side of his neck. 'You're only going to tell me to leave if I let go.'
And she concluded that from where, a bare touch of a kiss?
'I will not,' he tells her, hoping that his assurance will get her to look at him again.
'No,' she refuses, clinging even tighter than before.
Where he should tell her that he is being honest, and that she should believe him, what comes out from his mouth is a firm, 'I have time today,' from the deepest place of indulgence within his heart.
He may be making the biggest mistake of his life, choosing to fall into her lovely temptation when soon they will return to being teacher – headmaster, really – and student, but why not make a good mistake for once? For once, he can be with her without worrying about returning somewhere else or giving anyone an explanation about what he does with his time, so why not take it?
'I can really stay?' she meekly asks, her hold loosening only a little bit.
'You can stay,' he confirms, and clearly, it appeases her, because she unhides her face to look him, a radiant smile lighting her face.
'You kissed me,' she points out.
He's silent for only a moment, thinking, really, could he deny it even if he wanted to? Which evidence would he present to her, to show that he didn't in fact kiss her?
'I did,' he replies, though why it sounds like a hoarse admittance, he cannot say.
In immediate response, she reaches her hand down to run twice between his shoulders, filling him with tingling goose bumps before she reminds him that, 'You didn't want me to do it last time. Are you sure you're not going to make me leave?'
He looks at her for a moment, and none of anything is lost on him. Not her legs are still around him, not her arms around him and not her investment in it all. Considering the odd angle from which he is looking at her, she mustn't think that because he hasn't touched her yet that he is stuck in the past. In the past, he didn't want to risk an eventuality that could've happened. Last time was last time. This time is this time. The difference cannot and will not be compared.
'Must you always doubt me?' he asks. 'You came only to do that?'
'I brought you something,' she says, quickly easing her arms and legs away from him.
Finally liberated – not that he had been complaining about her hold on him, he braces himself on his arms, getting up altogether, before she gets the idea to trap him to her again. It hits him when he is on his feet, how accommodating he is to her, apparently having no trouble with coming down to her and putting himself in strange positions for her. Even as she brings her bag to the front and fishes for something from there, he is in awe of himself. This man that he's presenting to be, has he always been, only without an avenue to manifest?
'It's from Trelawney,' she tells him after she looks up at him. 'She said something about reading your cards and having no one.'
He looks at it and then takes it from her outstretched hand, only to throw it behind her on the bed. Only Sybill knows why she went to her with what he suspects may be crushed tea leaves, because he doesn't know the reason. It's not as though he ever mentioned her in detail to Sybill.
'She would say something like that,' he agrees nonetheless, more to himself than to her and then returns his eyes to her.
Unexpectedly, and yet not so much, she scoffs, then rolls her eyes, to finally settle on scowling as she rises to her feet and asks a disbelieving, 'Is she really your friend?'
'You don't like her?' he questions in return, purely driven by her telling physical and verbal response - he must say that he rather likes the idea of her being uncomfortable with Sybill; she should also have an idea of what it's like for him whenever she mentions Potter to him.
'I'm just asking,' she says, shaking her head, so confirming what she won't say. 'You know my friends and you don't like my friends either!'
Need he remind her that everyone knows her friends. That has never been a secret, so she has no business bartering her friends for his. Although, not that he would precisely refer to Sybill as a friend of his…
'I speak with her,' he answers just to receive a frown.
'I know that. She told me,' she says quite coldly. 'I also brought your book. I thought that I could send it back with Lefa, but he never returned to me. I asked him to find you. Did he?'
'He did,' he answers without missing a beat, lest she interrogates his hesitance, but his stomach lurches just the same at Lefa being mentioned.
'He didn't come back to me, though. You told him not to come back to me?' she wonders. 'I didn't get any more time to go into the kitchen since that night. Then after I spoke to Dumbledore, I didn't feel like I needed to ask him anymore. I wanted to, but I didn't want to make him feel obligated to listen to me and serve me. You said I treat him like a servant.'
And a servant the elf had been, he confirms in his head. He had been a servant right to the end of his life, accepting to die in servitude than refusing to follow the command of a witch. It's a terrible thing that happened to him, and the thought of telling her that he died fills him with so much apprehension that he would rather that she shuns him for killing Albus than tell her something that will equal to her sending Lefa to his death.
And so he accepts with a faint, partly dismissive, 'Hmm,' to make her believe that he still thinks that she treats the elf like a servant, and then adds a clever, 'Keep the book,' to direct her thoughts to the book instead.
'But it's better if you have it already,' she disagrees, which makes him wonder why when she hasn't removed it from her bag yet. 'What if I don't get the chance to give it back to you?'
Of course, she would say that, and how glad he is that she believes that. He can't explain it in precise words, but unlike having the upper hand with the Dark Lord, having the upper hand on her feels good. He imagines that it'll be like how those Easter Egg hunts felt at his primary school, and how he felt when he found an egg.
'I will get it,' he assures her, revelling in the fact that he knows something that he cannot tell her yet – oh, the look on her face when she finds out that they will see each other after this!
'Okay,' she nods, but there's something about her that's not completely usual, more so when she looks around him and says, 'I didn't see your sitting room last time. Can I see it now? You said –'
'Come,' he cuts her off, deciding that if she has something to hide from him, he shouldn't be the one to try and fish for it, not with the big secret that he holds.
What's more, the whole thing with her is new and exciting to him. From leisurely looking for her hand to leading her out of the room, there's such novelty to their unrestricted freedom. He's taking advantage of the fact that he no longer has to worry about Pettigrew living with him.
What more could he want?
More time to enjoy it, that's what, he responds to himself as he tries to stifle a smile.
He leads her down the stairs, stopping when they reach the bottom and pointing to the open room before them, saying, 'There,' and then looking at her to find deep interest reflected on her face as she looks on.
'Wow,' she says, releasing his hand, but looking towards him with such wonder.
There she goes again, making him doubt himself with her reaction. For a fact, he knows that there's nothing awe-worthy about the room in front of them, but even so, he scans it for a moment, trying to find whatever hidden gem she picked up on in there.
'Wow?' curiously leaves his mouth – he'd like to hear her explanation for that.
'Yeah,' she agrees with a careless shrug, just then trying to cross into the sitting room, except, he holds out his arm to block out her path, causing her to look up at him with such innocence, as well asking, 'Hmm, what?'
In response, he gives her a once-over, first questioning if she's naturally just like that or just naturally like that with him and then seeing no other thing to do but to test her natural tendencies, he shakes his head and releases her to go on. She excitedly moves past him, skip down the last step and going straight for the small, quite short shelf of books. She then rounds back with no decrease in excitement, beaming at him.
'Wow,' she says, jerking her thumb behind her to his bookshelf.
'Of course, my immense library,' he answers flatly. 'You've never seen one bigger, I'm certain.'
'It's not that. You don't change at all. It's like I'm in your office again. I bet these books are as interesting as those in your office,' she remarks, turning back then and begins to run her finger across their spines from one end to the other.
Hmm, all right.
His eyes still on her, watching her every move, he leisurely walks in after her, not too bothered to keep her close, since she clearly has the will to stay. Just as leisurely, he takes a seat to allow her whatever she desires to do. His intention is not to stare at her all the while, but for the moment, until he's sure as to how he can fit her into his day, he will allow his eyes to drift to her every now and then.
'You don't have any pictures in here?' she wants to know, turning around and facing him. 'Our sitting room has loads. My parents –'
Just like that, she stops, making him raise an eyebrow for her to continue, and though a small apprehensive look crosses her face, she does continue speaking.
'You saw our sitting room, you know how it's like,' returning to looking around his sitting room.
Yes, he has seen their sitting room, but from where he sits, he can see that she, just like him, has something that she isn't willing to say. It's no matter, though, at least not enough of it to shadow the contentment of having her here with him.
26Chapters
It was on purpose what he did, entering every room in his house.
He knew with absolute certainty that she would follow him without reserve, either keeping close behind him or hurrying to lead him along in his own house each time that he made a move out of the current room, thus his deliberate show of entering every one of the rooms in his house for one reason or another.
The idea came from her wonder at his sitting room and his amused response to her excitement for learning even the tiny things about him while looking around in there. Watching her then, it was suddenly important to him that every corner of the house had a taste of her presence, and more importantly, that his mind locked in the memories for future use. His mind engrained the memories into his mind perfectly, although at this particular moment, he can't seem to remember how she came to fall asleep on his bed – that memory is missing.
Pathetic, Severus! Is this what you've truly become, so pitiful a liar? You have been required to lie for years now - remember that and tell a better lie! If not, admit that you only want to go over every single part of what led to her falling asleep on your bed.
He mentally laughs at his own disingenuousness, after chastising himself lie, and then from his doorway looking into his bedroom, smiles to himself as he wonders, and so what if he does want to replay what led her to his bed? Isn't he allowed to relive his own memories as much as he likes? The ones that he likes, most of all, and doing so using any excuse that he deems fitting? Was that not why he did what he did without shame; to have the liberty to do with his memories as he pleased, at the times which pleased him or when he most required them?
Well, let it be known by his self-righteous part, that he will do as he very well pleases, and that in this case, means starting his recall at the moment that he led her into his small kitchen to finally begin preparing his lunch for the day. It was nothing ordinary, what happened in there, he remembers, choosing to cross into the room as though he was in charge of time itself. It was like nothing that he experienced with her up to that point, all the things happened between them, and their consequent feelings considered. It was, in as simple a way as he can remember it, the best and most peaceful thing that he ever had the privilege of living through in his whole life.
There were plenty of times during his interactions with her, when he felt that he at least deserved a fair warning about a coming experience, but inside his kitchen, the warning should have come as soon as he awoke to the summons to Malfoy Manor. He would've born that meeting better knowing that he'd return to something contrastingly beautiful at his house, and much more the following meeting with Minerva.
No matter that he didn't receive a warning, though, he tells himself as he reaches the foot of the bed, what matters is that he survived those meetings as efficiently as he could and was still rewarded with coming home to her waiting for him on his doorstep, which led to the serenity that happened inside his small kitchen. All of it made his heart sing without a sound; from when they entered the kitchen and she asked him about his cooking, to her excusing herself to the bathroom. Even now, it's a little unreal to him, bringing a satisfied but quiet smile to his face as he settles on his bed to begin removing his shoes.
As he went tinkering about in the kitchen, using his own hands to chop up vegetables, dice his meat and gather everything into its respective pot, she leaned on his small table, engaging him in talk about this and that - nothing of life and death matters, only trivialities surprisingly pleasant to add his own input to. He remembers how his heart swelled with such peace. When he joined her at the table, leaning on it with her while his pots simmered, it swelled even more, basking in the serene picture, that before he knew what he was truly doing, he was bending down to her.
He didn't ask for permission then. How could he, when he was spontaneously drawn by her easiness, to bring his lips to hers? It was a proper kiss, that one, unlike their first peck. He felt her smile as his lips pried hers apart to accept his kiss, her small hands moving to grasp onto his waist. It was a warm welcome to him, speaking volumes of her surrender and immersion into him, that his unoccupied hands moved on their own to rest on her neck, his standing leg following suit to nestle between hers as though it ever did such a thing in its life. And then quietly kissing her with all the gentleness in the world, when she responded to him, his stomach churned, overwhelming him so forcibly that like a suffocating boy, he breathed into her mouth and weakly pulled back to compose himself on her neck, the nearest place of safety that he could find.
His lips landed there first, then he pressed his eyes closed even more to pass through the intense moment of emotion. He never knew that it could be like that, that a mere kiss could overwhelm him so much, yet he found himself unable to continue kissing her. There was just something different about it, not at all like his first kiss had been. He'd been a young man that time, just emerging from his teen years and telling himself that he would no longer have any friendship with her since she just married Potter. He found a normal inexperienced young woman and spoke to her, they agreed that they would be physical, but when he kissed her and found that he wasn't invested in it beyond learning how kissing could be done, he changed his mind and left. Since then, he never attempted anything with any woman again.
Perhaps that is why her kiss intoxicated him to weakness like that, he recalls, now stepping around the side of the bed that she's facing and taking a moment to watch her sleeping face. He honestly doesn't remember much else in as vivid detail from then onwards, only that she didn't push him or ask him why he stopped and rather waited for him to pull back before miraculously saving him from appearing weak in front of her, by excusing herself to go to the bathroom. Reflecting on it now, he wants to believe that she knew how he needed that time to himself, but at the time, he only went back to working on his pots as a distraction. That she didn't return worked out well for him, giving him ample time to himself and to sort his thoughts out concerning her.
It turns out that she never returned, because she was busy falling asleep on his bed. At Hogwarts, she had slept in a chair, although clearly, something changed between then and now to make her feel comfortable to sleep on his bed. He wouldn't, normally – he would remind himself that it would not be wise to tempt himself, but the novelty of seeing her curled and comfortable on his bed, has him decided. He decided it the moment that he came up and saw her laying there. It took only one look to convince himself that surely now that he'd kissed her twice and shared his whole house with her, he's allowed to sleep next to her; he wants to.
With a smile on his face, he closes his eyes, and moves to lay on her side like she is, facing her. He then shifts closer, the warmth of her body meeting him, and though he is well aware that he is engaging in indulgent, highly satisfying deeds, he chooses not to be resilient and hostile to the one who wants him exactly as he is. He will no longer deny himself inside his own house, which is why whatever she will give him while in his house, dark magic be sure that he will take it with gladness. He opens his eyes to watch her for another moment and then he shifts closer, quite happy at the unexpected turn that his life has taken.
Hmm, the little know-it-all that she is, now confirmed of his feelings for her and proud of herself for always having known it, is sound asleep next to him. She cleverly corrupted him, breaking all of his protection and reducing him to softness around her, but she doesn't care one bit. She must be so happy with herself, the little disruptor! And she should be happy with herself, he smiles with satisfaction as he closes his eyes to also fall asleep.
26Chapters
In his life, he's been awoken by his father shoving him out of bed, his mother weakly calling for him to get up, his roommates making a noise around him and strong, burning summons. After the Dark Lord disappeared, he taught himself to sleep lightly to the point of feeling it when someone was standing and watching over him while he was in bed with closed eyes. He never, though, awoke to the soft feel of fingers fiddling with wrist, tracing little patterns over it.
'What are you doing?' he softly, maybe sleepily, breathes out, keeping his eyes closed.
He may not have woken up immediately when she did, but he's never been one slow to catch up on the events that led him to bed – he knows exactly who is with him and why he has no concerns of anything untowardly happening to him while vulnerable like this.
'I didn't want to wake you,' she softly replies, stopping her movements, it being the only thing that could have made him open his eyes to find her close, waiting for him with a smile.
'Hmm,' is all that comes from him, because what else could he say to her, that it's pleasantly new to him, waking up next to someone in his bed?
'I looked at the time and I have to go back,' she tells him. 'I'm sorry for falling asleep. We could have spent more time if I didn't. It was just the first time in a while that I wasn't thinking about anything important and – I didn't mean to fall asleep.'
'Hmm,' he accepts this time.
'I like it here with you,' she says, confessing even, 'and I don't want to go, but I have to. Harry and Ron, they'll worry if I'm not back with them soon.'
He tries to nod to show her that he understands her departure, also that it's not her fault that she has to go back, but he's not sure that he manages it well. He barely feels his head move, and when he remembers that such is their lives, that they will apparently always have to part whether or not something forces them to, a soft lump begins to form in his throat, making movement harder for him.
'I didn't mean to fall asleep,' she explains again, maybe trying to apologise again for taking up time that they could have spent in each other's company, but she shouldn't do such a thing.
Yes, they could have could've continued to talk while they shared a meal, and maybe afterwards, they would've sat together in his sitting room, simply relaxing, but what's done is done. There should be no point in lamenting in what could've been, and yet, he fully understands her quandary, that if at least something, her lamenting will make her feel a little better. He cannot blame her for using whatever she can to make herself feel better during and unwanted situation.
'You have to go, I know,' he says at last, shifting closer to her and bringing their bodies into full contact.
After that, he twists his hand to catch her still hand inside his to do what he did last time. He liked it very much when he joined their hands and connected them in that way. True, he'd been desperate for her to hear and believe him then, but all the same, it had made him feel like they'd connected in a way that nothing else but either of them could break. As he feels especially close to her now, he needs that connection with her before she goes. Once they are back at school and he is headmaster, he won't allow himself too much of this luxury.
'I don't know when I'll see you again,' she tells him, just briefly looking at the intertwined hands and then back into his eyes.
'It will be soon,' he answers without hesitating.
She shakes her head in response, possibly doubting him, most probably believing that he will not be returning to Hogwarts as well, and so says, 'I don't know,' with uncertainty.
'I do,' he assures her, squeezing his fingers against the back of her hand for emphasis, and just shy of asking her to believe his words.
Still, she shakes her head, closes her eyes as if to convince herself of it, and he still cannot blame her for believing what she does. He knows that if she knew that he would be returning to Hogwarts as the headmaster, she would've already mentioned it. Seeing as he can't explicitly tell her why he was shuffled into his current position, he is choosing to keep the news to himself until such a time as he can't escape her question, although what he can tell her now, he won't hold back from.
It's with that in mind that he rises from the bed, the action startling her to open her eyes and follow him in lifting herself into a seated position. Despite her hand joined with his, he doesn't stop at remaining seated, he gets up from the bed, gently urging her by the hand to do as he did. On his feet, he takes a step back to allow the room for her feet and once she fully joins him, he releases her hand.
'Have I ever specifically told you never to doubt my word?' he asks, in part led by her denial of the fact that they will see each other very soon.
With both hands now free, she uses them to push stray strands of hair behind either ear as she answers, 'Not really.'
'Have I ever taught you to read my actions?'
'No,' her head shakes.
'Can I safely assume that you have learned to, however?' he asks again and she, rather than give a verbal answer, nods, to which he breathes out a relieved, 'Good.'
He would close his eyes to appreciate the satisfaction of her understanding him to some level, but he doesn't want to lose sight of her waiting for him to finish with his question. It's another proof that she understands him, her waiting for him with asking her own questions about what he plans to do, and because of that, he proceeds with his next question.
'Now tell me, have I ever touched you like this?'
This, is him leaning in and his lips deliberately planting a kiss just below her lips, on her chin. As he pulls back, he notices her opening her eyes, but she doesn't say a thing to him.
'Answer me,' he quietly presses, also pressing another light kiss right there simply because he can. 'Have I ever?'
'No,' she croaks lightly, 'but you've kissed –'
'And this?' he cuts her off, bringing his head up for his lips to touch her forehead, his tongue darting out and swiping gently to get a tiny taste of her before he looks back into her eyes to ask, 'Have I ever done it?'
'No.'
No, yes. He's never done it, because he never knew that he would want to do something like that. Even now, he doesn't fully understand what made him bring out his tongue like that when he only meant to present her with a delicate form of communication.
'It isn't nonsense, all of that. Do you understand what I mean with it?' he wants to know in any case.
Nodding slowly, a triumphant smile shines on her face, her mouth just as triumphantly declaring, 'I knew it! You do like me.'
But she must always be right.
He doesn't mind in the slightest, though, not this time.
And yes, he does, if she must know. More than that, in fact. Looking at her, he would only like for someone to tell him in great detail what grand thing he did that she gravitated to him and would glory in the affections that he has for her. He realises now that what his body interpreted as being overwhelmed when he kissed her in the kitchen, because that same feeling is back again, even stronger than before, is only the simple truth that she holds his heart above all things.
'Ever a know-it-all,' he lightly remarks, that way confirming it. 'Now get your bag.'
Before he deludes himself into believing that he can keep her.
It's that if he doesn't let her go now, he might not be able to, he believes. It's such a powerful thing to realise that his should never survive it if he lost her, and even though he wants to keep her longer until the very last minute, he doesn't want to push his chances of it. He also truly doesn't know what to do now that he's unguarded his emotions to her. He needs a moment to himself to put his thoughts in order and then when they meet at school, he will know more about himself concerning her. He waits until she's put on her shoes and get her bag and then quickly, he laces their hand, not wasting time in pressing them through space to the river near his house.
'I will see you again,' he reminds her as he lets her hand go.
Frowning, she asks, 'What if you don't?'
'I will,' he assures, advising, 'Go home, Miss,' before disappearing just like that.
It's in the middle of space, quite certain that he already left, that he hears a faint, 'Severus,' spoken. His stomach coils at his own haste and her recklessness, but oddly understanding her need to keep him for a bit longer, braves the short wait to land inside his house, only to return to where he came from.
'What is it?' his eyes concentrate in question at her.
First shocked by his appearance, audibly sucking in a breath and then apparently confused by his question, asks, 'Hmm?'
'You called me as I left.'
'Oh,' she realises. 'Uh, no, nothing. I just wanted you to be safe. Bad things are happening everywhere and I'm worried about what will happen. And you just left.'
He's always just left, this is nothing new to her, although considering how an intimate a time they've shared, he supposes that he could have handled their parting with more care than just admitting his feelings for her and then leaving just like that. That aside, though, he is concerned now is to make something very clear to her.
She gave him a terrible fright, calling him like that.
'You cannot do that, Miss,' he warns, stepping close and taking her face between his hands. 'If I leave, let me. You cannot call me, neither can you follow me. It's not right.'
Truly, frighteningly, he should say, it's not safe or ideal for either of them. That, especially so, without Albus alive to use as an excuse. He needs her to grasp that his promptness to answering calls and leaving if he needs to, is desperately highlighted now.
'I'm sorry,' she nods and then bites her lip, probably mentally berating herself. 'I didn't think. Sorry.'
He understands that, he heartily does, but, 'You must be careful from now onwards, do you hear me?'
'Okay,' she nods. 'I'm sorry.'
To answer her, he wraps an around her neck, drawing her into him and closer until he can kiss the side of her head and whisper, 'I cannot care for someone who doesn't exist. Hmm? You must go now. Don't prolong it.'
He will never demand any extraordinary thing from her, because she never owed him anything yet gave him much more than he could have imagined to receive, but where he can protect her, he will plead with her to do what he advises.
'You also be careful,' she whispers back, lingering just a little more before pulling away to say, 'Bye.'
This time, she disappears from his sight, leaving him alone.
He will not lie, all this just proved that he is a sappy fool, and already, his soul understands that it would never survive if it lost her.
Oh, he needs school to start already.
There, he will have to better sight of her. There, he can protect her and her mischievous friends. And there, if he can perhaps spare some time, he would find a moment to hold her.
26Chapters
On the morning of the Welcoming Feast, he carefully locks up his house from inside, sealing it so that only he can Apparate back inside here. Pettigrew may be a living servant at the Malfoys now, but he can never know when he would try to use his Animagus form to trespass into his house. Once he is satisfied with his security, he then Apparates to Hogsmeade.
In Hogsmeade, rather than use the permitted floo to the castle into the headmaster's office, he opts for walking there, feeling that ample preparation is needed before he steps foot inside Albus', his new office. The truth is, though the rest of the holiday went by fairly normally, he couldn't bring himself to think about Albus and his will, neither anything to do with his new role. He blissfully out off thinking about it, but now that the students are due to return in a matter of hours, he has no other choice – things must be done.
For one, he must clean out his old office and pack up his few belongings from his old home. Leaving as abruptly as he did, he never did manage to take anything with him, and truly, he's grateful for it. As much time as he can put between entering the headmaster suite and coming face to face with Albus's portrait, he will gladly take.
Another thing that must be done is –
'Severus?' a woman calls him, making him turn back to see who she is.
The woman, Sybill, smiles at him from the short distance, waving at him as she hastens her steps to catch up with him.
'I wasn't sure it was you,' she confesses upon catching up with him. 'A man swore to me that it was you who passed by, and I had to run to catch up with you. I was only purchasing a few things.'
And drinking too, from the faint smell of it. But no matter, for he has come to accept Sybill as she is – no more than that, and certainly no less.
'Enjoyed your holiday, Sybill?' he starts only for conversation's sake as he picks up walking again.
'Yes, it was fine, but you are returning rather late! We all expected you earlier than today.'
'I had matters to attend to,' he replies, not caring if the lie sounds genuine or not.
'Yes, I imagine so,' she nods. 'We are all curious to know your plans as headmaster. I offered to foretell of your future as headmaster, but none were interested. I believe that they fear you following Albus' path of doom.'
He looks at her on his side, wondering how she truly believes her own inaccuracies for a moment. The moment passes and he instead decides to focus on humouring her by asking her a good of interest to her.
'Have you read my cards recently?'
For how she prides herself on reading his cards, she could just know something that he doesn't. About his coming fate, about his legacy, about anything to do with him really. He won't believe her superstitions, of course, but hearing them won't hurt him.
'Yes.'
'What do you know?' he pushes, his eyes purposefully fixed on her.
'Oh, nothing,' she waves away. 'Did you get your tea? I gave it to her, that rude girl. I don't trust her to have delivered it.'
'Then why did you give it to her?' he asks right away, because her words and actions do not correspond – what made her entrust something for him to someone in whom she has no trust?
'It wasn't my choice, no, no,' she answers, shaking her head while doing so. 'One of those elf creatures came to me. It was all very strange, I say. He insisted that I give your tea to Miss Granger. I had no idea why, but who was I to refuse a magical creature? Their presence is a gift of itself, no one should refuse it. But she wasn't happy to talk to me, so I wonder if she threw your tea away after she left. She didn't want to talk to me about you.'
It was Lefa?
'I got the tea,' he says rather quietly, feeling it the bare minimum of a saddened response that he can deliver for finding out that Lefa cared enough to take that initiative.
The creature worried about him, evidently. Whether for his own sake or her sake is no matter, it only matters that due to her, the elf cared about him beyond servitude, and that's as heart-wrenching as it is touching. Tonight, when she has arrived, he will be sure to call her to his office and –
'Well, that's a surprise,' Sybill scoffs.
'Excuse me, Sybill,' he moves to speed up his steps, only, she does not let him.
Rather, she – and this takes him so aback that he stills – holds his arm, tightly keeping her hand there, refusing to excuse him.
'No, no! Don't leave me behind,' she dramatically argues. 'You need to tell me all about your plan as headmaster!'
This is all surely a lie, he internally sighs. If it isn't, he must know then, whenever will the time come when he doesn't need to push his immediate thoughts and feelings aside, in order to attend to someone else?
26Chapters
He lied to Minerva.
When he said that he would get his answers from Albus' portrait once he was back at school, it was simply an excuse to get away from her and the topic of inheritance altogether; he hadn't wanted to fully face it then, and he still hasn't the desire now. As such, he tries his best not to deprive himself of breath while he stands at the proper entrance into the office, holding his only bag in his hand.
He cannot say whether he succeeds in doing so, but even so, steps through the clear opening with his jaw tightened and his mind set on ignoring a very specific portrait. Much more than the bag in his hand, he's carrying with him the weight of more than two months' worth retention of questions not asked, of things unclear, of feelings not arranged in the right order, and all of it circles around one very dead Albus Dumbledore.
In short, he will not do any such thing as cave.
He's done well to keep those feelings deep down all this time, and there is no reason why he won't be able to keep doing so, even within this office. His feelings are not stupid, he gathers, making him slightly miss a step when they all suddenly flood to the surface as his eyes fall on the previous headmaster. Due to practiced years of instantly pushing away what he feels and masking it with anger or something else, he's able to resist the urge to say something and simply carry on walking past the heart of the office in the direction of his new rooms.
'Severus,' his name fills the room, sounding more like a caution than a greeting.
It takes only that one thing, his own name from the lips of the man who couldn't trust him enough to prepare him for this, to stop and spin on his heel to in turn caution that man away from trying him so soon. The image from that night with the Dark Lord is still raw in his mind and combining it with the fact that Albus was never forthcoming with his plans, the picture is ugly – inspiring only the worst of sentiments from him.
'Is this what you wanted?' harshly leaves his mouth, deep in tone and crass in delivery.
Yes, he made the vow to push Albus' portion of his feelings deep down, but would it have killed the man to equip him properly for every eventuality? How many more like him, with bits and pieces, never fully trusted to know everything yet entrusted with so much, are out there in the world? Or is he the only one who is useful yet woefully in the dark?
'Yes,' Albus shockingly admits with nothing short of a satisfied tone. 'It is what I hoped would happen.'
But that portrait of a man, he would readily admit it?
Has he no sense of empathy for his feelings in the least?
No, it appears, and so no as well, he will not tackle this yet.
Albus may be feeling generous enough to be forthcoming, and perhaps this opportunity may never come again, but that's not enough of a reason to give that portrait an audience. According to his own time, he will be the one to decide when he feels like having a proper conversation with Albus and should that time take all term to arrive, then so be it. In that vein of thought, he picks up his feet to lead him in the direction of his new home.
26Chapters
It seems like it was just the other day that they attacked the Potter clones, and oddly, three years ago since he lay next to Miss on his bed, recognising that she is the only one able to damage his soul, never a killing curse. The former came so much earlier than the latter and yet that feels the closest to his memory. It's strange, that. What's even stranger is how quickly things escalated from settling into his new Hogwarts home, to here, standing in the place where Albus stood for so many years, waiting to make his speech.
It would be a lie if he said that he isn't nervous.
Well, he could say it, and the person to who he would say it, would believe it, but his reactive body would know and speak of the truth.
His slightly shaking hands would give him away, and so he strategically places them inside his cloak pockets.
His sweating ears would also attract many suspicious eyes his way, and so he's very thankful that his hair hides them.
His heart's firm thudding, if not properly held deep in secret by his ribcage, his skin and then three separate layers of clothing, would no doubt be the biggest giveaway of all.
One thing, however, and he isn't yet sure if it's due to the current climate or simply owed to the fact that he is Snape to the students, but the students settle down faster than they would have if Albus had been the one standing here. That doesn't take anything away from the fact that he is nervous, strangely enough. He will admit that it's all the better for him, seeing as he won't have to start off the evening with disciplining anyone, only, there's something infinitely nerve-wrecking about standing like this. Nonetheless, he takes one last look at them all (still unable to find her, no matter which side he looks), deciding then that the time to address them has come.
'Good evening, students and staff,' he smoothly greets despite his nerves.
In part to give himself a moment to recover, but mostly for simple courtesy's sake, he waits for them to mutter something of a response. Murmuring of some sort, whispers here and there never do come from the large audience, and though he quickly ignores the sting of their rejection so soon into the term, he cannot deny that weakens him just a little bit more that he nearly doesn't want to continue speaking anymore. Greeting them had been the pleasant part from his side, yet they wouldn't accept even that from him? Now what should he do about the unpleasant part that's to come – skip over it or speak it with the poison born from their rejection?
'Starting tonight,' he pushes through the silent resistance in any case, 'I shall be the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is advised for all to remember this and afford me the respect due.'
The last part isn't necessarily a threat, he is simply speaking, albeit from a stung place within him. He is no idiot, he's well aware that among the Death Eaters and their families, he has no ally – they all believe him to be a calculating, but the truth of the matter is that none of them here (the students not related to Death Eaters included) have any idea what would have happened was someone appointed as the headmaster. They can reject and scorn him, but he is the best that they could've had, in these times at least.
'You will find that some changes have been made to the staff, the more important being the appointment of Professors Carrows,' he slowly looks to his left where the two new teachers stand, knowing that the students will follow his lead. 'They will teach their respective classes, and again, I caution all to respect their authority and position at this school.'
No one from the crowd says anything, not even a whisper. He learned quickly, hardened his heart just as quickly as well, so he hadn't expected them to make any response, it's only that when Albus was here, this part of announcements especially would've been met with murmurs and whispers until silence was called for.
Damn it that he must be reminded just how unlike Albus he is!
And that people fear him rather than respect him, damn that!
It's one thing to know that people dislike him, but to feel and witness it all at once is something entirely different, he's finding. He swallows that down, though, telling himself that it doesn't matter, and that he must carry on. He must always carry on as though nothing – he knows this, he mustn't now pretend otherwise.
'A word for those of you who have the nasty penchant for breaking the school rules,' he sourly picks up again. 'There will be no tolerance for such acts. Each act of rebellion will be treated accordingly.'
They better listen to him, he thinks as he silently waits for them to digest his warning, because if they don't, at the wrong time, they might find themselves subjected to horrible punishment by those siblings; nothing has been withheld from them by the Dark Lord.
'Any developments will be communicated to you as they arise,' he concludes after the silence. 'For tonight, students and teacher, welcome.'
To a whole new world, he omits. He will also not sit back and wait to determine whether they will accept his welcome or not. Another thing that he will not do either, is tell them to dig into their food like Albus used to, because there's something more urgent that he to do while they eat, and more importantly, after shunning him, he doesn't particularly wish any of them well.
26Chapters
He enters dramatically, both a testament of his urgency and led by irritation with Albus for knowing about this. No one will convince him that Albus doesn't know anything, not even present sound evidence of the claim. As such, he marches right up to the portrait, ignoring the fact that he made the vow to not speak with the man until he was ready to, and standing there with coiled patience.
'She hasn't come,' he begins, hotly glaring at the man, simply daring him to deny the proof of her absence.
'Surely the Feast has not ended so soon,' Albus answers, seemingly ignoring his demeanour, but he will not be deterred.
'She hasn't come,' he heavily repeats, just about resisting the urge to cross his arms.
Damn it! This matter isn't a light one, and Albus won't make light of it. Albus may be in the mood to play around, but he isn't, not after being confronted with just how despicable other people find him.
'Who hasn't arrived where, Severus?' the man casually asks.
While yes, the man's face is set to reflect genuine curiosity, he will not be fooled by that. How can he be, when even Minerva had looked at him as she wondered aloud where she, Weasley and Potter were. Clearly, she'd expected him to know about the three's whereabouts, the fourth and close friend to them that he is. How much more wouldn't Albus quickly conclude who he is talking about in light of Minerva's very recent discovery?
'Who else?' he snaps, despising that he has to humour the man to this degree.
He certainly wouldn't be asking about Lily.
'Miss Granger then, I assume you mean?' the other man says as though he were offering him a solution to a problem that he had been struggling with.
'You know something, Albus,' he maintains the harshness as he glares at the man to explain himself.
Doesn't the man understand? From all their years together and through all the things that've happened, didn't Albus learn him to be one who doesn't ask for something unless he's at a loss? This is in no way easy for him to do, to bring himself to his knees in front of the man who was too determined to keep him away from her, yet out of necessity, he is here. He did everything that he could, searching for her as openly as he could without calling her name and when the prefects congregated, he still didn't find her. This, with Albus remains his only immediate avenue.
'Very well,' Albus quietly concedes. 'She will not be coming.'
He hears the words, and he's been certain all the while that Albus knows everything about her absence, but even so, it's like an invisible force punches the confirmation into him, not sparing any strength.
'You know?' he rightfully wheezes, stepping closer to the portrait.
'Certainly,' the other man firmly agrees. 'I know many things, Severus. What specific thing are you asking about that I know?'
'I'm asking about her!' he hisses with urgency, the effect of it being hair whipping his face from all angles. He does nothing to clear it away from his face, being more concerned with adding, 'You know that very well, Albus. Don't be so crass as that!'
'I just told you that she will not be returning to school.'
If he wouldn't say it so casually, as though merely mentioning something that's for simple mentioning – it is much more than that and he's fully aware of it.
'Damn it, Albus!' he bursts, his heart now pounding terribly. 'For what reason?'
Peering at him, Albus calmly asks, 'But why would you think that I know something about it, Severus?' which infuriates him inexplicably.
He doesn't know what Albus is playing at or whether he is finding enjoyment in this, he only knows that the answer that he needs lies in that very man's mouth. Ultimately, that means that as furious as he gets, he must, to a degree, tame himself before Albus. And he will, but before that -
'Will you stop!' he shouts, as unable as unwilling to contain his frustration. 'You know!'
Next to Albus, the other portraits whisper to themselves, saying that he has no respect and should remember where he is, and who he is talking to, but did he ask them for their opinion?
'Why, yes, I do know, but tell me, did she manage to find you at home, or were you two never able to meet after all?' Albus, apparently unperturbed, asks.
Spiteful and in the spirit that if he won't be told anything, he'll also say nothing in return, he remains silent. Besides, that visit to his house is not something that he will ever talk about to with anyone, least of all Albus.
'In either instance,' Albus says, 'I cannot tell you anything about her that she hasn't told you herself. I am sorry, Severus.'
This dead man!
He no longer has time to waste on him, and thus, as frustrated he is, whips his whole body away to leave for some place where he can get some answers. Perhaps the youngest of the Weasleys will have an answer for him.
26Chapters
All of his thinking led him to only one other person to help him, and though later an hour than he should be paying any normal person a visit, any feelings of intrusion and regret for disrupting the man are far behind him. In his quest for answers, he cannot regret whatever he does to get them, and so as he raises his hand to knock on his door, he mentally prepares his questions. The man must've been close to the door, for it opens right after his know, revealing a big dog and an even bigger man.
'Rubeus, forgive the hour,' he begins, only being polite for his information's sake, 'but I was concerned about Harry Potter and his friends.'
'Harry?' the man asks like he didn't just hear the boy's full name said.
Truly, only for the sake of what he wants, he will have to save face and be strung along as the bearer of information likes. In no way is it his preference to dance along to those who needs something from, but there's close to nothing that he can do about it.
'Yes,' he meekly responds, despite it all. 'Mr. Potter and his friends, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have not returned to school.'
The dog, Fang – he remembers his name is – growls then, a soft, maybe attention-seeking sound, which makes Rubeus look down at him and pat his head.
'All right there, Fang?'
'Rubeus,' he calls for the man's attention, desperately needing it away from the dog. 'Mr. Potter and his friends.'
'Oh, er...' Rubeus returns his attention, though his eyes can't seem to stop shifting from side to side. 'Professor – Er - Headmaster, sorry there.'
None of that answers his question, and if he was less in a hurry to hear what he needs to, he would've thought that the man is taking any opportunity to avoid from giving him an answer. Still, though, he will not give up until he has some useful information.
'Do you know why those three have not returned to school?'
'They haven't come? I wonder why,' Rubeus frowns.
To believe the man or not to believe the man is the crossroads that he finds himself at now. Rubeus has always been bad at keeping what he has or knows a secret.
'Has Mr. Potter told you nothing?' he tries again. 'You are great friends with him, are you not?'
He beams at the compliment first and then turns serious to answer, 'No, Professor, er- Headmaster. Can't help you there.'
Why doesn't anyone know anything?
'You will tell me if you hear anything about him? The times are terrible for him to be away from the castle's protection,' he says, hoping that he's sown the seed to the other man.
'Yes, Headmaster.'
Giving the man one last look, he then bids him a good night, swiftly turning to leave.
The walk to back to his office is sour, made so by the thought of Potter and what sort of trouble he could land her into! Just where is she and why didn't she return to school? It has everything to do with Potter, he knows. Potter's probably throwing a tantrum and boycotting school now that Albus is dead, and she being his loyal follower, is throwing her education aside to follow him into the depths of his insanity. Countless times he's told her that Potter will lead her into danger, but did she ever listen to him?
Damn it!
Had he been able to sleep earlier, he would have gone straight to bed, but with his mind consumed with thoughts about where she is and why she didn't come, even to going back through their last conversations to see if she gave clues to her plans, he won't be able to shut off just yet. In short, he will have to swallow his frustration and attempt another talk with Albus again. He remains the only one with the answers and until he has them, he won't be at ease.
Passing through his open entrance, something in the air suddenly stops him. It's a distinct wave of warmth that wasn't there before and intrigued by what sort of magic is now surrounding the office, he looks around, slowly moving his eyes and head from one side, only being stopped by the sight of a fiery bird. Literally, the bird has a golden yellow aura outlining it, making its appearance gloriously beautiful to his eyes and uncannily soothing to his frustrated soul. Because he doesn't comprehend, he looks at Albus from where he is.
'He has returned,' the man smiles at him as if he's heavily been waiting for this moment to come.
At that, he gazes back at the bird, which just then begins to cry a soft lamenting sound as a striking harmony. Inexplicably, the sound's tragic and beautiful all at once, as though sung by three separate voices. In the middle of that, the bird flaps towards him, gracefully circling him only once, before settling on his shoulder where it nips on his ear through his hair, transferring a lightness to fill him.
In a breath, all of his worry seems to disappear as burden after burden lifts from his chest until at last, he turns his head to the bird in wonder. As if knowing exactly what thoughts are going on through his mind, the bird bows his head and opens his mouth with no sound coming out and then flies off to take its usual place to seemingly fall asleep. Still in awe of what just happened, he returns his eyes to Albus, silently questioning.
'I promised that I wouldn't leave you alone,' Albus needlessly explains, which only reminds him why he came back here again.
'Where are they, Albus?' he quietly pleads, because though he doesn't feel completely isolated, her whereabouts are still front and centre of his desires.
He looks hesitant at first, he notes, having maybe expected them to speak about Fawkes, but he is clearly realising that there's no room for that.
'If she hasn't told you,' he replies, 'then I couldn't tell you either.'
He hates this. He hates how determined Albus is to protect the secret, and more so, he hates how perfectly he understands Albus' position. Understanding something and accepting it, however, are two very separate things. Too much of his sound mind is dependent on knowing where she is, that he honestly cannot accept Albus' refusal.
'Then how I am supposed to protect her?' he insists, desperately wanting to know.
Albus should please tell him that if not where she is, because he isn't sure what he can do for her from a distance.
'She's been instructed to keep a portrait of Phineas with her,' Albus answers. 'And I'm not mistaken, but I believe that you've equipped her adequately in fighting the dark arts?'
Albus should not, he thinks, seething and communicated so with his stare at the man. He shouldn't mention anything to do with him teaching her anything when he made sure to cut her education short. Although, as infuriated at the mention as he is, there's a piece of information in there, is there not? Is she possibly out there fighting the dark arts?
'What are they doing?' he wants to know, also, did Albus have anything to do with it?
'Would she have been safer at the school, do you believe?' Albus shifts away from answering him also clearly doubting his ability to look after her.
The accusation that he wouldn't have been able to do anything for her here at the school angers him a lot. As the headmaster, he would've been able to get away with anything to do with her.
'She would have been where I could keep an eye on her,' he hotly retorts. 'Potter as well, might I add.'
'No,' Albus insists with a headshake. 'Leave it be as it is, Severus.'
He wonders, has Albus ever loved a woman in his life?
Had he, he wouldn't speak in that careless manner.
Most obviously, he has no idea what it's like to have someone out of his reach, where anything could happen to them. Doesn't he understand the weight of uncertainty or how restless having an emotional connection to someone, but never knowing when he could lose them makes one feel?
'I beg, Albus,' he pleads with softness – if anything is to move Albus, let it be him humbling himself.
'She will be fine. She is a capable witch.'
Of course, she's capable; that was never in doubt. What he doubts, is the guarantee that he will also be fine. As they speak, he can't see it, in truth, not ever being placated for as long as he has no news about her out there in the open world away from him. Another thing is that capable, though she may be, she's also very persistent and attached to Potter and for Potter, he's certain that she would risk her life for.
'Only trust, Severus,' Albus says, his words nothing but acidic and unwanted comforts.
At the heart of it all, Albus is telling him to trust in the Dark Lord's mercy, mercy which does not exist. There is nothing that will stop that wizard from capturing her and her friends, kill them and then only call his followers to announce and show his victory to them, yet Albus seems not to mind?
He will not speak to Albus again, he vows. He refuses, but absolutely refuses to be tormented by a painting, atop everything else.
26Chapters
'Hey, Snape, come hear this,' Alecto calls for him, the merriment in her voice making him shudder even as he retreats back to the open door.
He had hoped that answering an invite from Lucius wouldn't require more than necessary from him, but apparently not. The fool that he is should've expected this. Not Alecto per se, only the taxing reality of witless entertainment which is the norm in the Manor, and it appears that he will have to entertain it to some degree.
'I'm here,' he dryly remarks in light of his reluctance, his eyes darting around the table, taking in the drinks, cigars, gold and cards decorating it and detesting every single head seated over there – by magic, he is far from wondrous, but the lot of them are detestable.
'Yaxley, shut up for a bit a tell Snape how you missed a perfect catch,' she says, her crude laughter following after.
By why does he need to entertain this? He wonders this as his eyes move to Yaxley who easily swears at her, telling her to not think it too funny until it happens to her and then only looks his way.
'I understand you, Snape,' he laughs. 'Those pesky children have luck on their side. I almost had them, you know. I caught onto the girl!' he appears to recall, if the motion of his hand grasping onto air is anything to go by.
It shows Yaxley's ineptitude, at least, so he unabashedly mocks, 'Still being evaded by children?'
'Bugger off!' the other man bites back, which fortunately is just the thing that he needed to hear.
'Then better fortune next time,' he evenly tells the man, glad to have an escape in the same breath. 'Now, if you would all excuse me.'
'Ag, come on, Snape,' she whines, once again taking away his chance to leave them to their game and making him keep from moving along. 'You've had the rascals with you all this while. We're only sympathising with you. We were just saying how we've misjudged your position,' she says as she looks around the table for the other's support. 'Those children are rubbish! Umbridge should know, they stole from her right in the Ministry! Sour brats!'
'Of all that nuisance girl!' Dolohov joins in. 'She survived my curse again. I swear, dono how she did it!'
'Tell him, Snape, he didn't aim properly,' she tries to get him to engage with them. 'There's no way she couldn't have died.'
'I hit her right here, I tell ya,' Dolohov defends himself from the now cackling group, showing behind himself with his fingers touching between his shoulders.
'You hit her right in the chest last time too, you said,' Yaxley reminds him through a laugh. 'You mean to say she's got some Mudblood protection in her dirty blood?'
At that, they all erupt into howls of laughter enough to drive a sane person insane, and though he's become accustomed to hearing that word here and there when congregated with these sorts, he particularly doesn't like to hear about a Mudblood who was hit with a curse in the chest last time. That sounds too familiar to his ears and feels too frightening to his very soul.
'What did you do, Antonin?' he asks, keeping his voice low and hopefully threatening to that coward of a man.
More importantly, who specifically did he do it to?
'That girl with Potter,' he carelessly waves away, but twists his face in disgust. 'She's a slippery one, that one! I swear, the next time that I see her, she's mine!'
Her? They are busy talking about her?
Coming to terms with that, he's completely consumed by a torrent of a hurricane, the force of it nearly overtaking him where he stands. How dare they sit there and mock he nearly killed his Miss! He'd love nothing more than to draw out his wand and send out long-acting personal curses to each and every one of them just to watch them suffer.
No one, and he means absolutely no one in this lurid circle of followers will ever be permitted to get away with even smiling at her; he will make sure to remedy that as soon as he finds out about its occurrence.
'What did you do?' he curtly repeats, his feet prepared to make the necessary cross to him and find out for himself if he won't get to talking.
'What, you wanted her?' Dolohov tips his chin in mocking defiance. 'Why are you asking me about her again?'
Because, you dim-witted cretin, his fingers twitching in tune with his pounding heart, that girl's integrated into my being now; I will never again live life as I used to!
She is easily the most crucial thing that ever fell into his life, and now only, long after Albus warned him of this, surrounded by people whose appreciation he doesn't have, he's realising how that easily also means that her being in his life is really the worst thing for him.
As he starts to grimly order, 'Tell me –' a voice from behind him questions, 'Hmm? Who does Snape want?' cutting him from the other's attention to her behind him.
How he hates that her voice alone has this effect on him, that he has to round to her instead on focusing on Dolohov, but the truth is, she is even more unhinged than all the others. When he remembers how she promised to take away everything that he likes, he's not so upset with himself for feeling a fair amount of fear at her appearance.
'I could help get whoever you want, you know,' Bellatrix offers, moving to touch his arm like they are friends. 'Dead or dead.'
The determined fire in her eyes is real, and he wouldn't dare to give away any clues about his alliance with Miss. These detestable people do what they do for fun, but if they had any idea who and what she is to him, they would do her harm only to see him suffer, Bellatrix the most.
'Nothing to say now, Snape?' she taunts and only through an accomplished level of self-control, he's able to step around her and leave.
Probably, the others will tell her what they were talking about, and that is no better thing, it's only that he doesn't trust himself to remain among them and carry on unmoved when presented with such a sensitive topic.
No, he will leave and surely find another day to corner Dolohov about his attack on her. For now, wherever she is, he can only hope that Potter and Weasley are doing their best to look out for her as she looks out for them. It's a sickening turn of events that he, of all people, would need something from Potter, yet many more times over, he would hope and hope that Potter protects her with his life.
26Chapters
'Severus,' Minerva bursts through his floo, quickly wiping herself off and giving him a death stare, 'those two are incompetent as teachers! Surely you see it? What do they know of educating?'
Her Patronus was pointless then, and he shouldn't have received it. Since she's here in the flesh, adding a painful layer to his hurting head, he should rather have dissolved her message to hear it from her own mouth. Simply for that reason, he does not react to her more than look at her.
'Don't just sit there!' she demands, marching over to him to stand at his side.
Just a little bit, remembering a time when she was furious with Albus, he's wary of what she might deck him over the head with, standing so close to him, and so in an effort to save himself from her anger, he rises and faces her in the hope that their footing will be even.
'They are teachers here,' he delivers to her with his hear nowhere near it.
He, better than anyone knows that those two are idiots who only have the experience of their own and learned biases. Without the Dark Lord's view backing them, they'd otherwise be complete dolts unable to understand the finery that is education and educating.
'They are barbaric brutes!' she half shrieks, confirming his thought. 'They've started torturing the children! Not even a week in and the abuse has already started! You are the headmaster, Severus, do something about them!'
He is the headmaster, and no doubt, she believes that being seen and taken as one of them, he is able to control their actions, but his hands are equally tied as hers are.
'There is a way to do things,' he tries to tell her as quietly as he can. 'I can only do so little.'
By no means is he proud to admit to that fact. In fact, it makes him look weak and cowardly, but if she would silently understand his position that since being elevated to the Dark Lord's most trusted servant, he doesn't have the room to deter much from the Dark Lord's ideals and what he would allow his followers to do. As Headmaster, there are things that he will simply need to ignore and that is the reality of things.
Albus, that man, did this to him - there's no one else to blame for this pool of wretchedness.
'Understand me, Minerva,' he begs again when all that he receives is cold silence from her.
He would much rather that she turned into a cat and mauled him before she looks at him as though he is not to be trusted.
'Shameful,' she lets out at last.
It's really her proper and polite way of saying that she is ashamed of him. It hits him hard, of course, and he wants nothing more than to turn away and not continue to see her look at him that way, but even so, he keeps his composure and endures it. His only futile hope is that she would believe in him even just a little, that she would go back to that meeting with Albus and consider why he was supposedly left in her care. He could do with someone other than Sybill, who seems to live in another plane of existence on his side, honestly. They wouldn't have to do anything to help him, only trust him to be doing what he can.
'Please,' is all he says.
'Severus,' she sadly responds with, and then shakes her head before leaving not through the floo, but his door.
Lately, he is sensitive to every act of rejection and rebellion. Truly, he just doesn't know why he takes everything to heart. He will not apologise to her, however, instead, he silently lets her leave believing that he doesn't want to do anything about the children being tortured. Nothing more from his end can be done about it, not when it will threaten to remove the Dark Lord's trust from him. Should he do the right thing and make himself look good to Minerva, it will come at the cost of proving to the Dark Lord that he is able to be moved by simple emotions.
But, why must it always be him? Why must the terrible things always pile one after the other onto him?
'See what you have done, Albus,' he mumbles without facing the portrait as the weight of his new life settles on him too profoundly at the moment.
26Chapters
All the days are the same to him.
They begin the same way, proceed the same way and then end in the same weighing way. The specific patterns of each day vary from action to action, from look to look and from reaction to reaction, but all in all, they bear and weigh the same upon him. When he was a teacher, hiding himself away in the solitude of his room used to be what he would turn to when something particularly trying happened, although as the head of school, he cannot hide away for any reason. Big or small, no reason can chase him to his room, and as such, he has taken to looking out of his high window, down to the students' movements below.
Courtyard assembly day after day, and day after day, even on the weekends, as taxing as it is, he looks down below at them without fail. They walk in perfect single file each time, and it weighs on him so, that the freedom of their delinquency has been replaced by their discipline. They keep their heads down in fear all the time, heavily outlining their childhood innocence, how they are not yet experienced adults. All of it burdens him so, knowing that he must shelter them from afar, but also understanding that they see him as the enemy. Draco barely looks his way these days, as though to demonstrate his reluctance, or burden – he isn't certain.
When the last of them disappear from sight, and this is always without fail, he's reminded of her absence. He's made to remember how he will never have the opportunity to shove her in Albus' face; smug expression and all. He'd planned to invite her to his office for their first evening of lessons and while she prepared herself to start, he would roll his sleeves back to reveal his Mark, while all of the portraits – Albus most especially – looked on and gasped. He'd wanted for that man to see just how much he really did teach her important things. Or how those important things would often be punctured or interluded light-heartedly by her. But without her, he cannot have any of that.
He can have nothing really, not anything of importance.
He can only look out of his window to see the students walking down below as per new mandate.
Sometimes, they remind him of a military camp, or that concentration camp that he'd read about in the book about David, the small boy who eventually managed to escape and find his mother. Pathetic though it may be, he wishes that he could escape as well. To be with her instead of with his mother in death. Sometimes, though, he does escape to a beautiful place inside his mind, where she lives, and he doesn't miss her there. A place where she's always with him for one reason or another, and the scowl that he puts on his face to mask his silent agony to the people around him, never appears on his face. In that place with her, he's always at peace, able to sleep without a care and the likes.
Where is she now and will he ever see her again?
He promised her that he would see her, but hasn't since they last parted. Does that make him a liar?
Away from him, does she think about him at least? When she has the time to spare, does she remember their finer moments together with longing fondness? Is there a part of her that wishes to find him and simply run away with him - to a place where they can lay beside each other, their bodies touching and their souls sharing in the mutual serenity as they drift off into the deep sleep? If he doesn't cross her mind at all, then such is life, he supposes; his life to be precise. He wishes that it isn't so, but should it be, then he is thankful that she gave him a taste of being wanted simply because he existed. As many conflicting things as she did make him feel, it was always very clear to him that she thought of him in some form of elevated regard.
She warmed him.
She liked him, she said – and he believed her.
And now, separated from her by Albus' apparent doing, he regrets having fought with her all those times.
He shouldn't have avoided her the times that he did - he should've been at peace with her at all times. He should have consented to Albus' supervised lessons, only to continue seeing her. He should have made up the excuse to visit Horace every now and then when she was brewing only to see her there. He should have patrolled the corridors more when she was doing prefect duties. He should have scandalised her more by making her take points away from students. He should have allowed for more quiet moments between them when she would come (or stay after a lesson) and get on with her life in front of him, so comfortable in being herself around him.
All that and more he should have done. So much more, he should have allowed for.
26Chapters
The number of times that he will keep remaking vows to himself where Albus is concerned are reaching beyond what his single hand can count. His vows are close to becoming empty threats, except, he cannot stop to remake them each time that he speaks to Albus. He swears, one moment he is adamantly vowing to ignore the man and the next, necessity is ushering him to break his vow in favour of speaking with Albus. He dislikes it, obviously, but what can he do against it when it's proving very difficult to keep himself away from Albus and the answers that he guards unrelentingly? Such being the case, he eyes the man's painted imagine with more than a little impatience.
'Won't you say anything now?' he questions, in part to cancel the prolonged silence from the other man and the other part needing a response to his position.
'I'm merely thinking,' Albus offers him a small smile.
He was silent for far too long, he soundlessly retorts, also rejected the smile with a frown, and silence is hardly the appropriate response to a complaint about the students and the teachers.
'Your concern for the students is admirable, however,' he appears impressed as though it were such a miracle for him to do so. 'But alas, it is not my place to dictate how you should run the school and most certainly not how to deal with your teachers.'
But how infuriating this man is! After all that he has influenced, that is where he chooses to mark a line of no entry? Albus should know that was it unnecessary to seek advice, he'd tackle all those things on his own, following his own path of headship.
'Be of good cheer, Severus,' he offers another smile, 'and do not worry too much about the students. Soon, they will begin their rebellion –'
No, that he knows. What bothers him is that the select few who do have the guts to rebel, are so far likely to pay for it dearly at a time when he is not looking.
'- and you shall be proud of them for doing so. I am by no means trying to detract you from the problems here, but there's something that I have been meaning to tell you, and we must act soon about it.'
The we in his thoughts refers to who exactly?
This, he begrudgingly wonders while still glaring at the now silent man and saying nothing. He wasn't aware that animated paintings could perform any acts beyond speaking and moving from canvas to canvas. Also, it's a wonder that a portrait can still feel the power to delegate from a frame and canvas – selfishly picking with matters are important and which to ignore altogether.
'This is important, Severus,' he commands from apparently seeing right through his mind. 'I need your assistance with this crucial issue.'
Oh, how sinfully rich of Albus!
'And did I not-' he angrily bursts before catching himself and stopping abruptly.
They've barely spoken since school began, and now what, Albus dares to plead, saying that he needs assistance while forgetting how his assistance had also once been needed but denied?
'Continue, please. Say it all,' Albus calmly encourages. 'You have held it in for months now, I know. Please, share it with me, so that I may apologise accordingly.'
Damn his incomprehension! It wouldn't be a matter of apologising. Damn it, he doesn't want an apology. Not at the moment particularly.
'Continue with what you were saying or leave me,' he throws back in response to the offer.
'Very well,' Albus clears his throat. 'It is about one of your comrades who stole from me. I believe that Bellatrix Lestrange was instructed to remove a sword from the Ministry premises at the time that my Will and the items pertaining to it were confiscated.'
At the mention of the Will, he spares a glance to his new and only ever pet, Fawkes, who's quietly sleeping in his place. Then he turns to Albus, wondering how in the world he found out all about this. Yes, he supposes that portraits spy and speak among themselves, but to know such detail? It can't be that the Ministry is littered with portraits when they highly guard their work.
'It would be of great help if you could send one of the elves to retrieve it from her Gringotts vault. Dobby would do greatly, I believe. Could I ask you to replicate a phoney to replace the one in her vault?'
Really, this man, he is astonishing.
If there will ever be a man as him in the world again, those surrounding him would have their lives planned out for them from birth to death. He cannot be sure, but perhaps Albus would have liked to plan his death as well, maybe already has, for that matter. All of that aside, however, just how stupid he's been! Sometimes, the simplest things are the easiest to forget when they matter the most. Why hadn't he thought to ask an elf about Potter?
The elf that he could have turned to, died, that's why.
'Can I count on you, Severus?'
'Where am I to keep this sword?' he asks to keep the conversation going. 'What's to say that Bellatrix won't come to this office and find it?'
'I have no doubt that your wards will keep her out,' Albus nods encouragingly. 'Although, you are not to keep the sword with you, it should go to Harry.'
'Potter?'
His heart more than his mental attention is alert at the mere mention of that name. If he is to see Potter, then he will see her.
Oh, how he will be glad to see her.
'Yes,' the other man nods, 'but take heed not to be seen. Harry will not take lightly to seeing you no matter what you bring at this particular time.'
Pfft! He doesn't care about Potter seeing him.
He would much rather throw the sword to the boy and distract him away while he went his way to Miss. Try as he might, he hasn't been able to find out anything about her. He's tried visiting her house for some clues but came up empty. On occasion, he's tried goading Miss Weasley into speaking about the three friends' whereabouts, to no success – well, accept to successfully receive a well practiced attitude. Heck, he's even asked Sybill, to find that she was of no help. But now apparently, he will be able to see her at last.
Yes, thank divine magic!
He could exclaim his victory as loudly as he feels it, throw his hands up in jubilation and do a little dance as he feels his heart do as well. He could kiss Albus' animated image too...
At last, he will see her.
'I will instruct you further once you have the sword,' he is told, 'only do please pass on the task to Dobby while it's still early. Goblin safeguards do not entirely discriminate against elves, although between the two of you, I'm certain that you will formulate a clever plan of retrieval.'
He nods, absently agreeing to the task, because at the back of his mind, no matter his excitement for the prospect of seeing her, there's still the nagging feeling of what exactly they are doing. So far, he's heard stories of them being close enough to danger, what with her apparently being caught by Yaxley, them stealing from Umbridge in the Ministry and those hushed words about the Dark Lord missing to kill Potter not that long ago...
He will work out what they are doing.
He swears it.
26Chapters
Thank Phineas, that grouch of a man in a portrait, for knowing their approximate location. Though granted, he wouldn't have had that hard a time locating them precisely, it's still a relief that he won't have to go through a few magical hassles. He did what he was sent to do, excelling in luring Potter away from their camp and watching as he struggled in the water until Weasley came along to help him, and so he felt that the time to see her had arrived. Even had he been obligated to leave as soon as his part was over, he can't and wouldn't have resisted it.
It has been too long.
His heart longed far more than it could bear.
For a bit, he wants to see her face – magic, only that.
Only to speak to her as well.
His Patronus, for the second time tonight, slowly leaves the tip of his wand carrying the message that she should come out to meet him. Interestingly, if she had never seen him send a message to Sybill via Patronus, she never would've known to trust his Patronus. He never wanted anyone to know his Patronus, but an emergency led him to contact Sybill and another emotional moment led him to show it to Albus. He would trek all through the forest to find her, if it wasn't for the fact that his time is precious and only precious because he intends to spend it with her, not searching for her.
Her Patronus shortly returns to him, delivering a breathy, 'Wait, I'm coming,' as though he would be as mad as to leave without seeing her.
'Hmhm,' he chuckles with his mouth closed; if the sky was falling only upon him, he wouldn't move, not before he got a glimpse of her.
He didn't say that he would wait quietly, however. Instead, he waits with restless patience, compulsively flexing his fingers, also to tapping his foot against the earthy ground in anticipation and his head turning this way and then that way, very attentive to her arrival. Upon the first sight of her, illuminated to him by the light coming from her wand, he automatically takes a step forward, apparently no longer willing to stay put. Honestly, were he a young boy, the darkness around them wouldn't do anything to hold him back from sprinting to meet her sooner than his long steps can get him to her – that constraint he is to be near her.
'Is it really you?' she softly asks as they each take their last steps to meet.
'Yes,' he replies, wanting to add, 'It's me,' but for the fact that only a step – either from him or from her – remains between, doesn't.
What he does, though is properly meet her with a cautious cloak of protect, which he wordlessly lights for them to see each other as though they were standing directly under the moon's brightest hour. And then, having done all that, simply takes her face in.
'How did you find us?' she asks, concern written all over her face. 'How did you know where we were?'
Would she wait?
Though true, he didn't expect any specific response to his appearance, he still readied himself for this visit with the image of her smiling in some manner. Even just a moment ago, her Patronus whispered her urgency to meet with him, again fuelling his preparation for a warm reception from her, but now she sounds more suspicious and dry than glad and receptive?
Did he do something wrong?
Something churns within him at the thought, but that's the only thing that he can attribute her response to. Perhaps, at some point between when they parted and now, he did something to steer her away from him and all that remains between them is a variation of distrust and incertitude. His eyes run over her face again, looking hard for a clue as to why she may be this way only to find nothing really, which is why he relents into giving her what she wants.
'I came to bring Potter the sword,' he answers while desperately hoping that with that information, she will come to life as herself and not present to reject him.
'Oh,' she quietly lets out with a nod, but then doubt, deep from what it looks like to him, crosses her face before she asks, 'How did you know that he needed it?'
That?
He would very much like it if they could move on to things that have to do with seeing each other after so long than his tasks. Doesn't she realise how swollen with relief he is at having her near him at last? After such a long time of being away from him, surely, she also dreamt of the day that they would meet again? Unless she hasn't been looking forward to seeing him one day. He remembers it with such debilitating force only now, but hadn't she been so adamant that she would never see him again? So then, had he only been a passing thing in her young life, one which lost her interest when it was no longer a daily encounter in her life?
Oh, magic, they were all right.
'Albus,' he tells her as well as remembers what that man told him.
Minerva too, she was right about this. They harshly warned him about getting invested in a young girl's attention, but his starved life wouldn't see reason and now when he needs her to want him the most, she's not stepping closer to him or looking to surround him wholly as she did at his house.
'Dumbledore told you about what we're doing?' she asks in amazement, which can only mean that truly Albus trusted children more than he trusted him to carry on whatever he had been doing against the Dark Lord.
Embittered by the realisation, he answers, 'He's told me nothing.'
Yet he's stationed three thieving students in Hogwarts to fight for him, all the while never commenting on why those three had attempted to steal the sword from his office and how they knew about it in the first place.
'So, you don't know what we are doing?' she sounds amazed once again, and where that should irritate him, it only really sparks the interest to know in him.
'What are you doing?' he returns, sadly putting aside any hope of her ever coming to him for an embrace.
He wants her to, though. Despite what her inaction, her lack of preferred response and his mind are telling him, he still wants her to reach out first and seek him.
'No,' she cries in an unwarranted hasty way. 'I really can't say, I'm sorry.'
'Why?' he hears leave his mouth.
He didn't mean to ask her that specifically, although now that it's out, he would like to know why she can't tell him anything. Seeing as she's gotten this far with him because she constantly pushed him for answers wherever she could, always trying to bargain with him as well, perhaps he could exercise her methods on her.
'I'm sorry,' she repeats, having the heart to at least look troubled by it, and if he isn't a fool for being touched by her silent emotion, he certainly is a weak man.
All of sudden, he is giving her grace to remain loyal to her friend, reasoning with the fact that even Dobby and Winky who are loyally bound to the Hogwarts staff, absolutely refused to disclose Potter's whereabouts. Her protection of Potter has never been a secret to begin with, so he must simply accept it.
That moot subject behind them now, he must know, 'You always knew that you wouldn't return to school?'
'Hmm,' she nods, adding, 'I'm sorry.'
He really is a weak man, he concludes, because as much as he would like to push her to tell him why she never said anything about it, he understands her secrecy perfectly. She could just as easily remind him that he has his own secrets, if he were to go along that inquisitive path. What's more, he should at least know that she is fine despite probably hiding out in the woods all along. Respond how she may, he will do away with the distance between them – even just to feel her warmth, he will do it.
'Are you fine?' he wants to know, stuffing his hands into his pockets in case they get the idea to reach out and touch her.
'I'm fine,' she quickly says. 'Are you? I'm sorry, I just - It's late and I really didn't expect to see you. I'm so stupid, I should have asked. How are you?'
Hmm, aah, how is he?
That question, laced with genuine interest and concern, when was the last time that someone threw it his way, even as a joke? See, this is what sets her apart from everyone else to him. Even when she appears to have lost interest in the depth of their relationship, she still is concerned about him. How much of a relief would it have been to have her at Hogwarts with him?
'Do you know about my position at the school?' is how he chooses to answer her, and when she responds with a nods, he continues with, 'It comes with its constraints.'
'I suppose so,' she agrees, smiling slightly. 'I heard about the laws to do with Muggleborns. I wonder if I would've been allowed to continue being a prefect there. My Head Girl badge came with my results.'
He knows, he was there when the selections were made – it was long before Albus died, but he says nothing about it to her.
'Do you at least like being the headmaster more than being a teacher?' she wonders, reverting back to his state of being.
'Because I don't have to teach?'
'No, just… Being headmaster is a huge achievement,' she narrates seriously. 'I'm happy for you, I think. Not many people can say that they've been the head of a school. It must be hard, though. I imagine it must be. You already used to look after us when you were just a teacher, and now that you're the headmaster, it must be hard.'
'Albus made it look too easy, however, it's no more than I expected,' he partly lies.
His false assurance is only a cover that he wants her to pry on and open. He wants her to pick at him, telling him that she doesn't believe him or to ask him to elaborate on what exactly he expected being headmaster to look like, so that he would be forced into confessing that it's harder than he would like it to be at the current time in his life.
'And your friend? Do you still get time to speak with her?'
Is she asking if he finds comfort in Sybill?
'No,' he replies; he doesn't and wouldn't want to - it's more Fawkes who seems to rest near him when he feels particularly downcast.
'I'm sorry about that,' comes from her, followed by a sad, maybe empathetic smile and then a question. 'Who are Head Girl and Head Boy?'
'Will it make a difference?' he questions to avoid telling her which two Slytherins were smuggled into those positions.
'No, but I do miss being at school,' she confesses, her eyes taking on a faraway look. 'I often wonder about it. If it's the same. If Peeves is still the same. If the students still complain about the professors giving them too much homework. If the Great Hall is always still loud and cheerful. If they're happy to play Quidditch. I can't imagine how anyone would be completely happy now, but Harry's told me that Dumbledore always said that Hogwarts is the safest place, so maybe they are.'
They are not happy, they're far from that, he answers mentally just as she looks back at him, focusing on him, really and then, 'I miss going to class and reading about – Never mind. I'll just… Maybe I'll sneak in there to see you next time.'
Oh, if she would bring himself to him for a mere hour…
'You wouldn't have to sneak in,' he assures her. 'I'd welcome you quite all right through the gates.'
That surprises her evidently, for she verbally jumps with, 'And the other teachers? You know, the others. I heard about them in the castle.'
'They will do no such thing as touch you. I will make sure of that.'
Because he has the privilege to get into certain parts of the castle unlike the other teachers, although he'll also do his best to never reveal her to any of those two. His position is precarious enough that he couldn't afford to reveal even a fleck of his bare skin to anyone associated with the Dark Lord.
'What, you'll tell them all about me?' she jokingly asks. 'You'll tell the Dark Lord?'
She jokes, he knows, but still, he urgently grasps both of her shoulders, drawing her to look at him properly while he talks. Jokes are acceptable, yes, but that is no matter to be uttered aloud.
'I will not present you, or your name in any matter or manner to the Dark Lord,' he firmly states. 'I cannot trust him with you. At a previous time, in my desperation, I wholeheartedly believed him able to spare someone, but he killed her regardless. I will never attempt to present you even as a ruse to him. I will never.'
He is deadly serious concerning that. No one and absolutely no one knows better than him what it's like to grovel before the Dark Lord's feet, pleading for a life considered not worthy of having magic only to later find out that his pleas had fallen on unmovable ears.
No, he refuses, simply no; the risk is too stupid, and the possible loss to come from it too plausible a reality to be gambled with. No.
'What if he finds out?' she wonders, her eyes possibly seeing the scenario already.
'I will not deny knowing you,' he tells her, his hands sliding down her shoulders to smooth the words in. 'Think of it what you will but do so knowing that lying or denying to know you even to protect you or myself, is something that could have an adverse effect. The Dark Lord, Miss, is not easily convinced out of his decisions. No one dares to question his methods if they wish to continue living.'
'You must be extremely good then,' she remarks. 'You're still alive, even being part of the Order.'
'Not so,' he refuses to accept, at the same time squeezing her arms to relay the depth of his coming confession. 'I had an important purpose, nothing more than that. It's only that purpose which has kept me alive.'
'Oh.'
Oh, indeed. He too would like to believe that he is a great wizard, and that he is, but more than he is a great wizard, the Dark Lord kills as he wants without blinking about it. His being alive can truly only be attributed to usefulness and nothing else, and he would rather that she knows that now, then have this grandiose image of him in her head. Some truths are better known, as cold and harsh as they may be.
'I will not speak of you to the Dark Lord,' he repeats, 'though should he happen to learn of our association, I will not deny it.'
He simply cannot risk either case in these desperate times that they are living in. Hopefully, though, if it comes to the Dark Lord discovering her before Bellatrix does, it'll be in a setting where she wasn't present, and he could get word to her to flee. Only under that particular circumstance and no other will it be partially safe for the Dark Lord to learn of her.
'Okay,' she accepts and in the short silence that follows, she looks at him until the approaching soft movement of her friends on the right distracts his eyes away from hers, making her shift focus with him.
They're protected, of course, unable to be seen under their cloak, so he doesn't fear the two boys nearing them, it's only that he slipped and gave them attention when he should've allowed them to carry on without his interest.
'Is that Ronald?' she asks indignantly, roughly shrugging his hands off her and turning her whole body in the direction of Potter and Weasley.
Apparently, Weasley overrides her interest in him, as she makes the move to leave to her friends, only stopping because his hand keeps her back. She might as well have kicked him the stomach while she was at it, because the returned feeling of rejection and disregard for his presence deep inside him feels to settle just there.
'He left us!' she says without turning to him. 'What made him come back now? Wasn't he having a better time at home, sleeping in his warm bed while we fought off mosquitoes and ate tinned food? He has the nerve to return, that inconsiderate, selfish boy!'
'You'll talk to him soon enou-.'
'I'll hex him before says anything,' she snaps, both verbally and out of his hold. 'What did he think, that we weren't tired of wearing that thing either? I heard horrible, horrible things with that thing around my neck and he thought – He thought it perfectly okay to leave us like that!'
'Go to him, then,' he irately pushes, half stunned that she would so easily shift her priority from him to Weasley and already start to leave him.
She's not in the least inclined to give him a backwards glance as she lunges away and out of the protective shield, which is another stab to his ire. He looks on as outside it and realising that there's no longer any light surrounding her, she creates her own light. He had hoped that before long, she would come to her senses enough to remember that he only has this little time with her, but no, she doesn't care about that, she only cares about marching to meet her friends. He wants to call out for her to wait, but deeply angered by the sight of her moving away, makes the sour decision to Disapparate. Just as sourly, he hopes that when she looks back after realising that they never said a proper goodbye to each other, she'll find him gone and not waiting for her to tire of Weasley.
26Chapters
Only once he's settled into his seat, turned off all the light in the office, leaving it completely dark, does Albus softly, somewhat tentatively, ask, 'Harry got the sword?' as though he read him as he entered and knew to wait for a better time than immediately to ask him about Potter.
How fortunate that his perceptive touch hasn't been taken by death, because he doesn't believe that he would've had an answer for him too fresh from an interrupted meeting. Though hardly more than three minutes in total, that little time to do those little soothing things for himself helped some.
'He got it,' he grunts, heaving out a long sigh right after.
'Thank you, Severus,' Albus replies, but he, expecting the man to have more than that comment, waits a little bit more, his ears ready to hear whatever else will follow.
Nothing else comes, to his relief, and again, it's as though Albus knows something about him, but he isn't complaining for once.
He, in any event, doesn't have the heart to go back and forth with Albus this late at night, least of all after such an unsettling meeting.
He isn't in the spirit.
He'd eagerly been looking forward to seeing her, only for it to go completely wrong from the beginning to the very end. Everything went wrong. He worried that she no longer cared about his feelings her, thus becoming intimidated. He doubted himself, considering if he did her any wrong, that he didn't have the courage to hold her unless she made that move. He kept silent about his true state, wanting her to care enough to hound him for the truth and so never got to experience any comfort from her. Thanks to his feelings getting in the way, his mind became muddled in a sense, helping him splendidly in mucking things up, the most important of all, being her shield.
It was a vital thing to forget, yet he did forget it. Like an inexperienced fledgling, he did the unthinkable of keeping her vulnerable to danger.
He truly mucked up! And Albus was always right that being too close to someone could very well mean one or the other's downfall.
Who knows what will happen to her out there without her shield intact, if Dolohov really did attack her with a curse and penetrated his shield?
Never mind that she might not have an interest in him anymore, he still heavily cares that she's safe at all times.
'Severus?' Albus calls a little hesitantly.
'Albus.'
'You're sighing an awful lot -' he hadn't noticed it, he realises, 'would you like to speak of it? Did you - Has something happened with Miss Granger?'
'I left her,' he mumbles weakly, not caring if Albus hears him or not.
To try and digest that, he shrivels back in his chair, closing his eyes and daring himself to sit here and feel the pain of his own stupidity, the sting of his own jealousy and the depth of his own longing for her. He was the one to make the damaged decision of allowing her to cut their first meeting short, and so needs to feel the full effect of it. So that he knows never, ever, to do it again, he won't remove the weight of guilt from himself.