The next morning, Snape ventured to the library. Apologies, to him, were rarely given and rarely received, so he felt his heart lurch as he walked, and he cursed his body for the weakness. He'd weighed using occlumency to get through this, to quell the intrusive thoughts, but for fuck's sake—she wasn't the Dark Lord. It wasn't as if every time she looked at him she could see his inner thoughts. And it was preposterous to ever consider it.

But with the feeling in his chest growing as he stalked down the corridor (looking far more piqued than a Saturday morning should ever allow), Snape decided to shield his mind.

You're fucking surrendering. His internal voice screamed as he occluded his thoughts from himself. Fucking weak.

But he couldn't let her win. And he sure as fuck couldn't let Lupin win, so Snape concealed the lip curl as he spotted St. Ange in the corner of the library by the window. He took note of her ballet flat peeking out from the hem of her robe, the back dangling off her heel, as she curled up in the armchair. Far too casual for a professor-and why the hell was she in the library to begin with?

He cleared his throat. She jumped at the sound. He'd appeared in front of her as if—

"Oh—Professor Snape…" St. Ange recovered from the start and schooled her countenance into something cordial—or at least made the attempt, Snape noticed. "I—I didn't see you come up—"

"Marking exams in the library?" he queried, "…is your office being fumigated for bundimuns?"

"Oh—I like to be present for students. I hold office hours, of course, but there are those who feel more comfortable seeing me in the library. It's all about accessibility."

"How…ingratiatingly accommodating."

Snape's apology was off to a roaring start.

St. Ange blinked, wincing at his words, "was there something you needed?"

Two fingers of firewhiskey. It's 8 a.m., and I'm no hero. "No." He clipped, "I merely came to clarify my statements from yesterday."

There had been so much he'd had to say. Where, she wondered, would he begin? Snape shifted, slipping his hands into his pockets as he loomed over her. He took a breath and pivoted: "The case study for veritaserum; there's one from 1944 that I think would be suitable for use in the course."

The mention made St. Ange pause, and she laid her quill down, "the case study on the ministry's use of veritaserum on the underage members of the Alliance?"

Snape's mouth sank into a frown, "precisely that one."

She sighed, considering this, and Snape noticed her shoe kept dangling from her toes, threatening to fall to the stone floor. The top three buttons of her burgundy robes were undone, offering a glimpse of the hollow of her collarbone. Carelessness, it seemed. A general feeling of annoyance overtook him, "So?"

"So, this means you want to continue working with me in developing this course?"

Snape was now somehow fuming, "well, not if you're going to ask inane questions like that."

Anger flared in her eyes, and Snape felt energized. St. Ange spoke evenly, in spite of the fire of her words. "You make a really strong case for us working together. But anyway, I went to the headmaster this morning and requested a change—"

"You will do nothing of the sort," he countered—how could she have done that? Was she awake in the predawn gloaming uttering "Supernova Toffee" and gaining entry just to not have to work with him? The very idea grated him.

"I've done it—and Dumbledore said he was open to me running a special course with Madam Pomfrey—"

"Madam Pomfrey's expertise is limited to the healing field—" Snape scoffed, "my knowledge extends to several different areas, and the Ethics of Potions course would be severely lacking if I didn't teach it—"

"You mean if we didn't teach it—"

"This squabble is wasting my time. Friday next? 4 o'clock? We will resume our planning sessions."

St. Ange gazed at him, astonished. But the astonishment was mixed with a morbid fascination; she'd always indulged in exploring the profane—and Professor Snape's behavior was piquing a perverse curiosity in her. She craved to study him. Preferably in a lab.

"Fine." She declared and picked her quill back up, her eyes easily refocusing on the exam before her. Hang on—was a fourth collar button undone? He could've sworn it had been three. "I'll tell Dumbledore that we will proceed after all."

Snape felt the urge to sputter but tamped it, "Very well. Friday, then."

St. Ange glanced back up, flashing a smile and small nod. Wait—was she dismissing him? Snape quirked one perceptibly unimpressed eyebrow and glided away. The apology had been a success.

Later that evening, St Ange met up with Sinistra, Lupin, Sprout, Flitwick and McGonagall to study the stars—the Saturday Evening Gulp and Gaze, to be exact. Not a sanctioned faculty event, but nonetheless regularly attended. Kept from students by way of disillusionment charms, the group had been indulging in some mulled wine and ginger newts to catch the first night of the Northern Taurids. Sinistra was scanning the partly cloudy skies; no luck yet, even with clearing charms for the haze. As a result, there had been more gulping than gazing.

"So—no apology," Lupin asked St. Ange, "I told him—"

"I think it was his version of an apology," she managed and gave a suck to the cinnamon stick in her goblet, "Still not an apology, but—I'm meeting with him again on Friday."

Lupin shrugged, "Godspeed, then. Snape holds a… historically prickly personality. He's not going to get better."

"Historically?"

"We went to school together—never got along, though."

"So when you said you've known him for decades—"

"It was in the literal sense, yes."

"I can't imagine him as a child."

"You wouldn't want to."

St. Ange inclined her head, "oh come on, Remus."

"What?" he asked, genuinely shocked, "he was difficult then, and he's difficult now. Somewhere along the way he grew a conscience and—"

"There!" Sinistra declared, pointing her wand at the sky. The group turned their eyes and a hush fell over them as they watched a flurry of meteors fly across the firmament.

Another cloud rolled in—and they went back to gossiping and drinking. St Ange had appreciated this social event; it was where she learned the inside track to everything. Whether it was exactly how the dementors were patrolling the grounds (she'd not practiced a patronus in five years and had to quickly brush up with a strong memory of foraging in the bayou with her father), or debating with McGonagall on whether or not Hermione Granger's use of a time turner was ethical, or just how Lupin's interview had gone in July. (And how hers had gone in August.)

With the clouds in the sky, there drew another pall—or that's how Lupin reacted as Snape appeared behind them.

Flitwick was curious—and nearly finished with his third glass of wine, so he was loud too, "Severus, is there something wrong? An emergency?—" He couldn't fathom another reason why Snape would be before them.

"On my patrols, Filius," Snape was quick to establish his explanation, "someone has to keep watch over the roaming dementors and the wayward students when all of you are up here engaged in various states of inebriation and carousing."

"No dementors here," Lupin offered, "if you're looking for them, that is."

Snape stared at Lupin for a moment, unblinking, before flitting his eyes to St Ange, whose attention was pointed toward the heavens.

"Pity the skies are largely overcast tonight," Snape said, glancing upon the curve of St. Ange's neck, how that collar was now buttoned up to the top, the scalloped edges slightly digging into her skin; she'd have a pattern of little crescent indentations when she would take it off later that night. And then he continued, "though I'd imagine keeping your eyes trained upwards makes it easier for the alcohol to go down—"

Sinistra smirked at his comment, but maybe it was because she was in fact tipsy. Everyone on staff could acknowledge that Severus Snape could be very funny at very random times.

"Professor Snape," St Ange glanced at him as she strode over to the cask and grabbed an extra goblet, "care to join us?"

Lupin shot a look to her, incredulous. But Sprout was quick to jump in, "oh, yes, Severus—Minerva mulled the wine herself and—"

Snape exchanged looks with McGonagall, who knew him too well to jump on the "come join us" bandwagon. She only arched a brow at him, nibbling at her ginger newt.

As Snape, the infiltrating misanthrope, gatecrashed the party, the professors resumed their conversations while keeping an eye out. Snape at a social event? Unheard of. Baffling. Like a blizzard in July or Dumbledore awarding points to Slytherin.

Having filled the goblet to the brim, St Ange appeared before him and shoved it into Snape's hand so that he was forced to curl one finger around his wand while the other four took the cup. "I like to add extra cinnamon, but I'm sure your mix of garnishes would be more inspired than mine." She smiled, very simply.

And as he went to the small cart with the cask and the garnishes to spoon in the perfect amounts of cardamom and mace (because Minerva was so damn stubborn about mace and its flavor properties and he knew she never added it to the wine base), he came to the conclusion that St Ange was either attempting to manipulate him or enchant him. And he would be on guard for either. Battle ready and clear eyed. His mind started to hum with a list of counter spells.

St Ange stayed close. "What is mace, anyway?"

Snape huffed and took a sip of the wine, which was much improved from Minerva's recipe, "you've got to be joking."

"What? I think we covered it in second year potions at Ilvermorny and, much like the basic operations of arithmancy and native Bulgarian herbs, the information has been lost to time."

Snape heaved a sigh, demonstrating his benevolent bestowal of knowledge upon her—however put upon he was, "it's ground from the blades of the nutmeg husk. Many uses—some contradictory. Various South Asian wizarding communities are fond of it in healing potions and historically the Celts used it during remembrance ceremonies. Would you like the full slideshow lesson or-?"

"Your succinct summary will do—thanks."

Snape took a sip of his wine and allowed himself a moment to savor the flavors as he trained his gaze on the cup before him, "American accent with a French name. Curious."

St. Ange countered, "Not too curious."

He felt a twist coming.

"I'm from New Orleans," she said, once again scanning the skies for the meteors. Perhaps tomorrow night would prove better for gazing.

Snape assessed her now, given this new information, "and then how are you not freezing to death at the top of this tower during this early hibernal Scottish evening? Surely your warming charms can't be well developed, being from such a hot clime?"

He winced; his lobbed insults were getting weaker. Snape blamed the wine—all three sips of it so far. Perhaps, he thought, he should drink more, and he'd get back on his game.

"I gained a solid proficiency in shielding myself against the cold London air when I worked at the ministry," she said, "but you're right—I had no need for them until I moved here, to wizarding Britain, that is. And yes—it is frigid tonight. Hence the wine drinking, I guess."

Snape resisted the strong urge to turn the conversation into an interrogation, but he was curious as to exactly why a random woman from New Orleans would work at the ministry of magic. He chalked it up to being recruited for the job; not many people wanted to work in the love potions regulation department. Too many terrible stories and paperwork.

He also surmised at this juncture in the conversation that St. Ange was fishing for sympathy. Perhaps she wanted him to cast a warming spell on her or get him to give up his cloak in an appeal for comfort. But he vowed to himself, between sips of spiced alcohol, that he would not yield to her machinations.

"But mace is also an aphrodisiac, isn't it?" St Ange mused bluntly, her question breaking into his increasingly frenetic inner monologue.

Snape held his breath as he bit back a cough of poorly swallowed wine. He was frozen for a short moment until he was sure he was able to speak evenly. "That's correct."

"Honestly—that's the only thing I remember from class. Actually, it wasn't from class—it was from a fifth year who told us over lunch. But anyway…" she glanced at his cup, "you like mace then? As a flavor, I mean?"

"It has many uses."

"That's not what I asked, but I'm sure it does."

"It's particularly well-suited to the overall flavor profile of mulled wine. Autumnal, as it were."

"Autumnal, hibernal—and what do you drink when you're feeling estival? Vernal?"

She was drunk. But could he tell, she wondered silently?

He could.

Snape pursed his lips and watched. Just watched. This sylph was running through the four seasons and would soon be naming the assigned adjectives for the days of the week or maybe odd names for collective nouns. Bothersome. Irritating.

St. Ange caught herself, chuckling into her goblet, and downed the last of the wine until she was hit with a burst of cinnamon on her tongue, "so you don't ever join everyone up here—why is that?"

He gave her an unamused look that conveyed a sense of weariness. And superiority. "I mean, look at this. This …spectacle."

"What? Sinistra discussing the Taurid radiant or Flitwick and Sprout arguing over her mistletoe charm—"

"Oh, spare me," Snape groaned, "that woman is a complete menace at the faculty Christmas party."

St. Ange laughed now, "that actually sounds hilarious and I need to know more about that—but I mean, look, everyone is pretty tame here. Not a spectacle at all."

"Says the witch from New Orleans."

"Exactly. This is nothing." Erzulie held up her goblet, "second round—top you off?"

Snape shook his head, and she was off. He stood by, alone, until McGonagall sidled up. "Ah, The Great Befriender…"

Snape rolled his eyes, "Minerva, don't expect this to become a regular occurrence."

"Just remember, stuff your mouth with a biscuit so you can't say anything untoward. Ah, I see you've been generous with the mace yet again. My recipe has been handed down for generations-"

Snape smirked.

"But…" McGonagall's voice was quiet, "it's quite the surprise to see you attend this. A little curious you found your way up here during your patrols. Usually Filch has this bailiwick, if I'm not mistaken."

"What do you know about the ethics professor—St. Ange?"

McGonagall took a breath and was heartbroken she couldn't display one of her champion wry smiles, "American—"

"Already noted."

"Your sharp wit toiling away, no doubt," McGonagall edged in, "highly educated. Worked for the ministry—something happened there. Last spring—because that was when Dumbledore floated the idea of an ethics course to me. Of course, I was enthusiastic. Her interview was very strong. Lots of ideas, a strong philosophy. Refreshing to have an outsider, actually. One not so entrenched in the day-to-day drudgery—maybe naïve however…Very talented. A fine addition."

Snape's eyes flickered as he listened, taking careful note of the subtexts McGonagall was providing, "fired from the ministry then?"

She shook her head, "not that, no. Dumbledore didn't say, and I didn't ask. But why are you asking?"

"With dementors roaming the grounds, Sirius Black on the loose—and whatever other … dark forces might be lurking…it's odd she shows up…?"

"I'd say this is the perfect time for ethics to be a part of the curriculum then," McGonagall shrugged, who knew that it only took having to work with another teacher to make Severus Snape spin into conspiracy theories. She shrugged again at him, this time with a pointed glance, and moved on to speak with Flitwick about sourcing more toads for the baritone section of the choir.