A/N: All rights belong to Rowling, and I'm only having a good time playing in her sandbox.
TN_Chapter 35.
(18/19)
Halloween, 1994.
On the last morning of October, Anne sat in the Great Hall with a spinning head, trying and failing to conquer sleepiness. She chose a mug of coffee after her usual tea and toast, but even that didn't do the job. Her body and mind craved the rest she had denied herself last night. Strangely, Snape sat by the High Table in his usual morning gloom, giving no hint of anything extraordinary, as if he hadn't plotted by Filch's table against a supposed impostor in the wee hours. He seemed just as grumpy as any other morning and didn't seem to struggle at all.
Anne would have loved to know his secret. The school buzzed with anticipation, and she struggled to keep an eye open. Thankfully, even one eye was enough to take in the display in the Entrance Hall, the Goblet and the prospective champions approaching it from all Houses, the Beauxbaton coach, and the Durmstrang ship. Of course, the Gryffindors were the most excited. They even put up a rowdy scene, as usual, and Sophie nudged her to retreat to the dungeons when it was sure the Weasleys broke the rules and were about to fight over the consequences.
Bragging with false pretence and an empty wish for glory mixed with anticipation for the evening and hopes for a party after the Feast, but Anne couldn't pay attention to the buzz around the Common Room. She fell into slumber when her head hit the cushioned rest of her favourite plush armchair by the fire, and neither Sophie's gossiping with her year mates nor Higgs and Warrington disagreeing on the right approach of distracting their House's Head could wake her. Finally, the portrait entrance opened with different energy, and she quickly came to when she heard Snape's voice:
"Davies, Badock, Pritchard, to my office! If anyone else wishes to sneak out to the Forest, you may join them now," – he waited for a few heartbeats, and when no one dared to make a sound, he added more calmly: "Professor Hagrid laid table for the fays at a different clearing. I don't know which of you began this madness, but your worries are unfounded. Did I make myself clear?"
Sporadic "yes, sirs" sounded from different niches of the Common Room, and Anne sat up in her armchair to see better if his features showed only dissatisfaction or anger. If those silly third years take up his attention, they will be in for a difficult evening, with the upper years disciplining the idiots like Snape never could… Strangely, Snape didn't look concerned when he returned her look. He subtly nodded to her, similarly to how Mrs Norris blinked when she saw her, then turned and left the Common Room.
While all others heatedly discussed the third-years' idiocy and the sixth-years' fault for getting them – and the rest of the House – into trouble before the big night, Anne felt her face rush with a strange warmth, and she escaped from Sophie's questioning glance into their dorm's washroom. She well remembered the boys' grumbling about Hagrid's perceived incompetence compared to Kettleburn's, who had given the fairies their fair share on Samhain nights but wouldn't have thought of the lower years taking the issue into their own hands. It wouldn't have chased her away, though… it was that look.
The warmth that sometimes crept into Snape's glance when he contemplated her on their detentions (hours on end twice a week) when she tried to figure out a solution for an Arithmancy problem for brewing or debate his approach of a new charm, only showed he accepted her enough to listen to her opinion. On their detentions, it did. However, in the Common Room, amidst all her housemates and under the observant eyes of Sophie, it felt peculiarly intimate… thinking about it, she felt this even before. Like at dawn in Filch's office. She dared not contemplate that strange moment, but his glance and amusement somehow lured her in…. Foolishness!
Anne turned away from the mirror she'd stared at unseeing and jumped under the shower. A quarter of an hour under the hot spray and she managed to convince herself she must have been only tired, and washing off the lather of her hand-made shampoo, she even agreed herself that the look – if there was such a thing – didn't concern her but Effie Brown, whom Snape chose to talk to on those occasions.
Of course, Effe would look out of place in the Common Room. It was a silly side-effect of meddling with mind magic. She should only keep firmer boundaries. Being sleepy did not excuse anyone for being a fool. Snape only wanted to teach Effie, and she didn't belong to Hogwarts.
By the time Anne dressed for the Halloween Feast into a fresh school robe above a comfortable Muggle dress and woollen tights, she managed to dismiss the whole issue, never once thinking of whether Snape realised he was looking at Anne in the Common Room and Effie in Filch's office, or he failed to distinguish the two since they agreed on this tentative approach. The evening ahead was more important, and Anne sat among her fifth-year peers for the special Feast and watched the Goblet spouting the names of the Champions for the Triwizard Tournament one by one.
The Great Hall was all but shaking with tension. She could sense it from the direction of the Head Table as much as from all the student tables or the visitors. McGonagall was carefully joyous in her undoubtedly high hopes, Sprout excited and worried, but Flitwick seemed to burst with anticipation and pride over hosting such an event.
The guests from the Ministry also divided the emotions behind the Head Table. The simple presence of the old Crouch was enough to ruffle up Karkaroff's feathers, and he kept even more distance from the man than Snape, who gave off nothing about his emotions but seemed exceptionally aware and withdrawn.
Remembering their conversation in Filch's kitchen, Anne scanned the three headmasters, well, one headmistress, who was ready to prove herself and her school's abilities, and two headmasters, Karkaroff, whose fake superiority hid guarded hopes and anxiety, and Dumbledore, who didn't let on more than his usual duplicity, the jovial exterior, and the shrewd sense behind his eyes, Anne never dared to tackle him. However, this time, he was so obviously anticipating something… something he didn't want to miss… that Anne couldn't help noticing his attention embracing the Hall.
The students and visitors roared when the flames flared, and a blue sparkle produced a piece of parchment.
"Durmstrang's Champion is Victor Krum!" – Dumbledore announced in a deep, rich voice.
The uproar was yet to subside when the flames rose again, and the Goblet sent a second piece of folded parchment soaring into the Headmaster's hand.
"The Beauxbaton's Champion is Fleur Delacour!"
This time, the ovation was partially spoiled by the mixed feelings from the Beauxbaton part of the Ravenclaw table… Anne couldn't stop herself from staring at the visitors. A younger girl was so happy that she almost jumped from her seat, but two boys almost looked disappointed.
While she contemplated this and the lives of those who came to measure themselves but could only take part in the events by cheering for one of their peers, Dumbledore's voice filled the hall again and called for Cedric Digggory.
Some at the Slytherin table found the choice hilarious.
"Merlin, it has to be Mr Niceguy!" – Higgs held his head in his hands and shook it with disbelief. "Goody-two-shoes fucking Huffs won't do against a Durmstrang!"
Most agreed with him around the table, especially Warrington and a seventh-year boy named Hill. Sophie told Anne before the Feast that Warrington secretly placed his name in the Goblet, too, and now she wondered whether Hill had done the same. There wouldn't be a Slytherin champion, but at least the Gryffindors had nothing on them this time…
… then the Goblet shone again in whites and blues…
… and a fourth parchment flew out from the flames, taking even the Headmaster by surprise….
Wherever Anne glanced, it made sense to no one. Poor Argus mentally checked all the safety instructions he had to abide by and whether he was at fault. Sprout's fright trembled in the air, and McGonagall's tension could have cut a steer. Anne unconsciously sought Snape's opinion without hope of sensing much of his emotions, but he proved her wrong this time.
"Harry Potter"
The Headmaster's voice called for the Gryffindor wunderkind, and despite the intense feelings around the Slytherin table and all around, bafflement, indignation, and aversion, she clearly sensed Snape's fright and outrage. His eyes shone with black fire as if the Goblet's flames reflected in them, and his ire and panic hardly knew boundaries for a few seconds.
"Harry Potter," – Dumbledore repeated the name, and the emotions from Snape turned into unforgiving coldness before they disappeared, unlike the Hall's raging feelings that finally made Anne teeter as she looked around.
She saw the boy was forced to stand up by the Gryffindor table and sensed all the revulsion that surrounded him. Cedric Diggory just earned the support of the whole school in a blink. Why and how he managed to outsmart the protections around the Goblet, Anne couldn't know, but she began to pity the idiot, who clearly didn't anticipate marching to the front while all but whistled their opinion against him….
Then she barred all the distracting noise of heightened emotions and sensed his fear!
Bafflement.
Worry, embarrassment – No such feelings matched others' perception of this troublemaker….
She watched the Potter boy slowly walk to Dumbledore and opened herself more to sense the Headmaster's worries and calculation. She felt Dumbledore's surprise, but he didn't seem as baffled as Potter was… strangely, Snape didn't seem baffled either, only angry and anxious – what was going on?!
As Potter walked past the guests, Anne followed her with all her abilities. There was surprise… a firm sense of being betrayed from Karkaroff, even a hint of wishing for revenge…, and disbelief from Madame Maxime. The good Lady Giant apparently couldn't fathom such a scandal to arise, not in her presence and not at such an occasion! Underneath, she might have also felt overwhelming worry for her own Champion, whom she dearly liked – Anne noticed. It wasn't dissimilar to Professor Sprout's emotions.
Everyone stepped toward the backdoor. The last of them was Moody, and Anne's heart almost stopped sensing his gloating pride.
Wait, what?!
Before she could make sure, Potter and all others disappeared from sight, and the Great Hall emptied without observing any measure of order, which Professor Flitwick was not enough to achieve alone. The Prefects tried their best, but only Ravenclaw had her House's Head present, and the rest went astray.
It was the perfect set-up for the long-awaited Slytherin house party. The Snakes returned to the Common Room, ready to burn or break it.
"Why behave if the Gryffs have their own champion?" – someone asked in the crowd.
"They most likely have now their own school, too, after all. It is a wonder why others bother to ride the train back to Hogwarts every year!" – a voice replied to him.
"Hey, Sophie," – Per Derrick approached them with an already half-empty bottle of violet liqueur and conjured two glasses for the girls. "D'you know why the Goblet chose four Champions?"
Sophie shook her head and took the drink.
"One is for Beauxbatons, one is for Durmstrang, one is for Hogwarts, and one will compete for Dumbledore's school!" The boy grinned, and when a lot snickered around, he sailed on, offering drinks for all the girls in the four upper years.
"That's a good one," – Sophie turned to Anne. "I heard another yesterday: Why doesn't Karkaroff ever go to the Hogshead?"
Anne shook her head. "Why?"
"Because his goatee would refuse to leave," – Sophie laughed, and Anne forced a smile.
"This is horrible!"
"Yeah, they all are, and there's already a handful, but I'm proud of Slytherin's quickness. It will be fun to watch how many bad jokes they can come up with about Potter and the three champions in just one night!"
It soon turned out she was right.
The fifth-, sixth-, and seventh-years kept coming up with jokes about the Trickwizard Tournament and The Goblet of Faux pas.
The fourth-years produced badges to express Slytherin's rooting for Diggory. When young Malfoy showed how it turned against the Gryffs with only one push at the right place, Anne couldn't argue against the message: Potter's involvement was stinking indeed.
Magical and traditional beverages flooded all the common areas, and the gramophone someone dragged forward played the Weird Sister's new album for the fourth time in a row when the Bloody Baron appeared, and his inarticulate roaring frightened most back into their dorms. Only a handful of sixth and seventh years stayed and put up with the chaos that remained, contemplating life, politics, and chances in half-delirium…
Anne slipped through the portrait entrance.
She wasn't exactly not-sober… but she had her share of the party, and in this state of mind, something told her – probably the violet liqueur and the two shots of sparkling rum – that all she had perceived in the Great Hall was too important to bear alone.
She was fed up doing everything alone anyway! Fed up to the brim with figuring out life and whatever alone! Always alone!
She came all the way with minimal assistance, and she would have needed at least another Dan White to help her through the worst days if… Oh, how bloody selfish and shortsighted she was! Wonderful people assisted her at every step! Wonderful people who deserved better than her grumbling and moaning….
Shite! When her dress' edge hung up on the end of the rails, she realised she had forgotten to put on her shapeless school robe. It would have been wiser not to even take it off in the Common Room, but Per decided to spin her around on one of the songs, and it all seemed overheated after… when she managed to free herself without harming the fabric, she calmed down.
Snape and Argus told her less than a day before that they anticipated something untoward from Moody. Something untoward happened, and Moody was gleeful. Snape wouldn't use Legilimency on the man, so she had to tell him what she learned.
Strangely, talking to Argus didn't even come to mind. Anne intuitively climbed the flights of stairs and turned into the Infirmary corridor. If there was one thing she knew about Snape, it was his strong persecution complex's aversion to portraits and other witnesses of his troubles. And he was troubled enough after the fourth piece of parchment flew out of the Goblet that she anticipated him to shut himself off in his quarters or the Brewing Room. She could sense but couldn't explain his panic or Moody's glee, which was disturbing enough to take her chances. She tiptoed through the ward and knocked on the door behind the storage rooms.
"If you came to patch up a sobering potion, you will find enough in the cabinet by Poppy's office," – she heard Snape's voice as soon as she pushed in the door, although she had received no reply to her knocking.
Even his voice seemed strangely distant. He sat by his workbench and stared at something that could have been a piece of coloured parchment…
"I need no potions," – she informed him, anticipating dismissal. "The party is over, and no one burnt the hangings."
He finally turned to look at her.
"Shouldn't you hide your misconduct better? Have the decency and at least act as if you remembered your place!"
Instead of taking offence, Anne was preoccupied with his eyes' emptiness. They were hollering the pain she remembered she'd seen once, and now she wondered why he didn't bother to hide.
"I have the impression neither of us likes to act out, sir. So why should I disrespect you now if I didn't lie in these past seven years?"
One eyebrow slid up a notch, but his tone was dismissive. "Five."
"It's well over seven for me, Professor, but only you may know if you can trust someone who hasn't lied to you for five short years."
"You mention it as if it was an achievement," – he remarked, and some life returned to his gaze.
Anne tried to keep him talking, hoping his eyes would regain their usual liveliness. "Under some circumstances, I guess it should count as one, but I didn't come here to brag about nonsense."
His glance flew back to the parchment before him, and his jaw moved with poorly hidden pain.
"Why did you come?" – he sounded urgent, and Anne knew he was only waiting for a chance to send her away. But why should he wait for one? He kicked student arses onto a curve over the Moon for less than wandering about after curfew…
The thought gave Anne courage, and she walked closer and sat on the edge of the prep table, subconsciously mimicking his favourite pose. There were so many ways to phrase what she was about to tell him, but he didn't ask about her experiences, he asked her why, and at the moment it felt curiously important. Perhaps she could have waited a day or a few hours because she wasn't sure why… Potter and Moody were most likely asleep… the castle was sleeping, and she was sitting here under his renewed gaze only hours after his warm glance chased her out of the Common Room.
It's because I'm an idiot – she thought. When his eyebrow rose again, she rephrased it aloud: "I wanted to talk because I hated to be alone knowing it, and there's no one I can tell… It's stupid, sir, I just… I think I'm tired of finding all the answers alone."
There was it again. A flicker of warmth in his glance finally left whatever he kept examining on his workbench as if her words carried more than their separate meanings.
"We found plenty of answers in this room, Rosier," – he tentatively replied, carefully measuring her. She wondered what he was pondering when he looked at her like this, but she would probably never know.
"Yes, sir. And last night, you asked me about Professor Moody. I… I think I have a different answer today."
His wand shot out of nowhere, and the room was sealed before she could take her next breath.
"Tell me!"
It was challenging. Anne easily sensed emotions and discrepancies, but they were hard to translate into words. She tried to phrase her experiences in a way that didn't sound phoney and was almost surprised when he could follow.
"It's always hard to be sure in the Great Hall, especially when it's packed, but when the Goblet offered the fourth name, most were so shocked I could distinguish the first reactions, and aside from the obvious –"
"Nothing is obvious, Rosier," – he fully turned towards her in his seat. "This year, you cannot take anything for granted!"
Anne tried to heed his warning and elaborated on Sprout's pride and wish to follow her student into that backroom and McGonagall's shock before Snape stopped her again:
"What about our guests?"
Remembering the signs of distaste when the old Crouch sat behind the High Table, Anne wasn't surprised by his tone when he used the word.
"If you mean from the Ministry, I know them the least, so it was hard to –"
"I mean any one of them, girl," – he grumbled with his usual impatience returning.
"Well, the Beauxbaton Headmistress was appalled. There was complete synchronicity in her emotions and outside reactions. Karkaroff,"-
"Yes?"
Anne swallowed her nerves. "Karkaroff was a lot more frightened than he showed. He was also enraged and suspicious… I thought he would do something silly, especially because he has this strange tender feeling about his favourite. That Quidditch star the Goblet also chose. He had been so self-assured and satisfied before the fourth name flew up, I believe he expected to win."
"Do you mean to tell me that he had been unaware of a fourth candidate before the Goblet chose one?" – Snape asked, leaning closer on his seat. How he disliked the word "chose" perplexed Anne momentarily, and her hesitance seemed to irk him.
"He was almost as angry as you were, Professor, although his fright was less like panic and more… I don't know, sir, warmer… like chocolate brown… like worry… I think he feared how this would influence his favourite because that colour keeps lingering about him when he looks at Krup."
"Krum," – Snape corrected her shortly. "You must read the Prophet."
"Well, yes, but actually…"
"Are you sure he was surprised?" – he cut her before she could deter. Anne nodded with conviction this time, and he leaned back on his bench, propping himself on an elbow. Anne watched as the tension slowly left his shoulders. "What else did you see?"
She thought about his near panic and lamented whether to mention that again. It hardly made sense, and she was curious but not suicidal to pick on Snape's possible weaknesses…
"Well, the Headmaster was also surprised, but less than most. He seemed… I don't know… alert? More than usually… and so ready to… to act… he wasn't happy about the fourth name, but he seemed determined, somehow." Anne stopped for a second to contemplate her answer. "He was still more surprised than Moody, for sure. I could sense his content. And… I don't know, sir, I might be confused, and I only felt it for a short moment…"
"But?!"
Snape was on edge again, and she dared not stall any longer. "He seemed gleeful about it."
She watched his eyes rounding and the last shards of the Professor-persona dissolving as if it flaked off his form in magic. The man before her was only Snape again, the one she saw in the stadium stands and for moments in Filch's office. The change was so swift it astonished her. The way he unconsciously scratched his left forearm just where she suspected his Mark used to be was more disconcerting.
"But who is he?" – he mumbled, and Anne was sure it wasn't intended for her ears.
As she watched him think and mumble, forgetting about whatever kept him sad and preoccupied before she entered, she slowly realised that it was probably the first time he had let his guard down in her presence. This wasn't like sensing him in magic by chance or by his intention, and this wasn't about magic. It felt almost like he trusted her or as if he let go of the usual suspicions, letting her see him. The thought felt almost riské, and she bit her lip to avoid smiling. She thought she could avoid it…
"D'you find this entertaining, Rosier?" – Snape's voice pulled her harshly back to reality. "If the Headmaster's fears prove to be true and a murderer outplayed Hogwarts' protections –"
So much about Snape ever letting his guard down… Anne sobered up quickly. "No, sir, I didn't mean that!"
"You're giddy about your performance then" – he accused. "I can assure you that it is by no means indispensable."
"Oh, no! I – " she quickly thought about anything reasonable to explain her tiny smile, "I only remembered the reactions in the Common Room…"
Hostility quickly morphed into curiosity, and he jerked his head. "Meaning?"
"They are making jokes about Potter's involvement. Like how many Gryffs d'you need to snuff off a candle? Or how there are four schools at the Tournament…" When he looked at her questioningly, she explained: "There's no need for Gryffindors. The Headmaster will blow it out and give points to Potter, and there's Beauxbaton, Durmstrang, Hogwarts and whatever school Dumbledore's leading…" – she shrugged. "They also make badges to cheer for Diggory."
"And you find that funny, Rosier?"
Anne finally gave up and openly smiled. "It is genuinely funny, sir. They don't give a rat's arse about Professor Moody and his identity in question, so what would stop them coming up with silly jokes?" When he sighed and only looked thoughtful once again, she risked adding: "No matter if Potter was surprised when his name came up, not even his House would believe it. People are tired of the gossip around that boy yearly, especially Malfoy…" She remembered how close Snape was to the Malfoy heir when he looked up at that, and she quickly stopped, but it was too late.
"Let me guess, he is responsible for the badges, not for these horrible jokes."
Anne nodded.
"If only it were that simple," – Snape sighed again, and Anne cherished the flicker of warmth that returned to his glance when he looked at her. "Your observations eliminate Igor from the candidates of this attempted murder. This wasn't badly done."
"Thank you, Professor. But do you think it was not someone trying to help Potter instead? People say –"
"And what do they know?" – he turned his eyes to the ceiling. "The champions had already entered a binding magical contract with a dark artefact, and there's no way to extricate them without damaging their souls. It's a wonder this whole circus could be set up after all the death toll it had demanded in the past, and now we have a rejiggered magical object and a fourteen-year-old fool to keep alive without any hard evidence against his attacker."
Anne tried to follow. He was so convinced, yet she felt she only had questions, which grated on her nerves. What was it that she couldn't see? What made them so wary of this Moody character, and why would Snape worry about a foolish little Gryff? Weeks of open arguments in this very room at least made her ready to speak her mind:
"Excuse me, sir, but it doesn't make sense to me. I can see Moody altering the magic of the Goblet because since the year began, he has been obsessed with layered curses and magical objects, but to what end would he do something like that? Even if he is not who he says he is, and I have yet to sense that kind of duplicity in him, what would he achieve by helping or endangering a Gryffindor? If I count in his glee about the success, it still only seems to be a twisted joke or a sick experiment… which doesn't serve anyone…."
Snape's eyes fell on his left forearm, and his hand closed into a fist. It was impossible not to give attention this time, and Anne sensed tiny threads of worry escaping his control. When he cleared his throat, she quickly looked away.
"Maybe," – he told her without any sense of conviction. "That doesn't change that that mediocre moron is into the next deathly challenge of his life, and I'm running out of ways to keep him in one piece…"
Baffled, Anne could only stare at him at first. Snape sounded like someone talking to himself, or worse, like someone who expected her to understand shards of thoughts without showing the process that linked them together in his mind. Theorising that the mediocre moron might be the Potter boy, she made a mental note to keep an eye on the Gryff if she had an opportunity, if for nothing else, at least to understand Snape better. There must have been a reason for his panic…
Meanwhile, Snape's attention returned to whatever he had been inspecting on his workbench when she entered the Brewing Room, and yet again, the same pain and gloom began to rule over the silence about him. Anne had no other wish at the moment but to finally understand him, and she intuitively stepped closer to see what kept him so preoccupied. He didn't stop her.
Above Snape's shoulder, she peeked at the magical frame of an old Muggle photograph. It preserved the picture of a girl in her early teens. Sitting in a swing at some oddly Muggle-ish place, she pointed at something outside the frame, smiling excitedly as if she had just been caught explaining something when the picture was taken.
Anne tried to make sense of Snape's strange mood. His emotions didn't help. Those fragments he didn't close away were the usual pain she sensed about him whenever he let himself a little looser… maybe a hint more of grief… a modicum more regrets… some of his earlier worry... Gathering courage, Anne finally asked:
"What happened to her?" It would have felt too personal to ask who she was.
"Her friend betrayed her, and she died," – Snape's monotonous answer simply informed her.
There was something hard and heavy in the plain words. They shouldn't have felt like a punch in the gut. Shreds of Snape's pain multiplied in the air around them until Anne found it hard to breathe.
Snape's next words felt harsh in the deep silence.
"Haven't you wondered what makes me such a terrible friend, girl? I tend to destroy everything that is precious to me."
Anne didn't dare to speak. A friend betrayed her, and she died. Could he mean himself? Was he that friend of that girl's?
But one look at his hands clutched together, his neck craning above them, and the honest pain wearing the air and magic down about him, and Anne knew he would never forgive himself for whatever had been done. Did it even matter what that was?
That photo looked so old. Whatever he was referring to must have happened long ago… probably one of the war stories. Even if he'd killed her, which she doubted, if he'd been persecuted that day, he would be free by now….
When he suddenly jerked up and stared at her, the paleness of his face and the bewilderment in his defenceless eyes almost made Anne's heart stop with the shock. She tried to mumble that she didn't mean to, but Snape's right hand shot up and snatched her arm.
"Say it!" – he demanded, making her gasp in fright. "Say it out loud!"
She trembled, but she forced out in a whisper: "The war was long ago… even murderers are set free after their due."
The urgency and hunger in his look were almost foreign to the man she thought she knew. He squeezed her arm again and asked:
"Would you forgive them? Would you forgive those who tossed your family into your current place? Your father, who cursed you?"
It was way too complex to answer him in a short word. Anne shook her head, trying to find the words.
"Who am I to forgive? And even if… they are the only family I could get to know. My brother and I have made our fair share of mistakes already, and we aren't even at war… he doesn't forgive our father, but I wish no ill upon him just because he knew no better. It… it saddens me."
"Saddens you?"
Anne gasped again when he shot up from his seat and swiftly walked to the distant end of the room, only to turn back and stare at her before he screamed:
"IT SADDENS YOU?! HE ABANDONED YOU! He put you in the way of mortal danger, made your soul a target of monstrous creatures, the worst our world knows, almost got you a fate worse than death itself, and it SADDENS you?!"
Oh, yeah, the Dementors… Anne swallowed something that tasted like shame and let her eyes fall, but then he shouted again:
"ANSWER ME!"
She felt stupid and scolded for no reason, and it was irking. Anne would have hidden somewhere and postponed thinking, but he allowed no reprieve, and neither the part of her personality she called Anabella nor the one she built up as Effie had a taste for his demanding tone, which was grubbing through her deepest emotions.
"Yes, it does!" – she found herself lifting her head and returning his stare. "I pity my father. Does that suffice as an explanation? He wasn't brought up to lead the family, but the brothers he had, had proved themselves too moronic to do the job right! I don't like my uncles, and I don't respect their memories, but they are all I have, and no, I'm not rejoicing in their deaths, even if I probably should! I pity my father for being forced to take part in what he obviously has no clue what it is about, and I would be surprised if any of his acquaintances had known more about the ugly world back then than my stupid brothers know now!"
The silence became dense between them, but Anne didn't dare to say another word, and Snape must have had a huge surprise to conquer. At least he never looked more preoccupied with his thoughts while his gaze didn't let hers fall.
"And do you believe you know more about the ugly world than they do, Miss Rosier?"
It was a perfect moment to tell everything about her uncle's letters, get them out of the way and maybe ask for help for her father and Caleb, but Anne would have hated to strip her family like that, even before Snape.
"I only know how I feel about my father. And I feel sad, sir. Not vengeful."
Whatever shock he'd been through must have stunned him because Snape's next words came only above a whisper.
"You have forgiven him."
"Yes," – Anne replied without hesitation, although it wasn't a question. What she wasn't anticipating was his near-collapse by the wall, letting it support his back and prevent his fall even when his legs were visibly close to giving up. "Are you all right, sir?"
Of course, he didn't reply. Anne wasn't even sure whether he'd heard her. His chest was heaving, and his gaze left her moments before, staring into the air instead. She glanced at the photo again, and the young girl smiled on that swing as if nothing happened in the room. She looked so careless it was hard to imagine what could have made her build a friendship with such a man, but then it occurred to Anne that perhaps Snape hadn't always been this troubled, just like he once must have been a mere boy, perhaps on a nearby swing. Whatever had happened must have hardened him, and she now involuntarily must have cracked some slits on his armour. Something told her he wouldn't thank her for that.
She looked at him again, and he turned his face away from the room, closing his eyes, apparently trying to win some time to compose himself. There wasn't much she could sense of his emotions but shock, pain, and grief. Anyone else she would have hugged in such a turbulent moment, offering comfort they so thoroughly lacked. It would have been foolish to do the same for Snape…
…she laughed when she found the parchment in Filch's office all those years ago. A Slytherin's Guide to Hugging Professor Snape – had anyone ever attempted to hug him? She also remembered how her laughter died when she realised even the question was hurtful….
Once, she had hugged him. Like a child would, lonely and grateful, scared on a dark corridor… It could have been that ancient memory or the violet liqueur and its companions from the party, but Anne wished to step closer to somehow comfort him at this peculiar moment when something gave him more trouble than he could hide. This one wouldn't have been a child's embrace, reaching out for support. This time, she felt secure in her role enough to wish to support another.
He looked up and noticed her glance. The wish to step to him and offer a hug like she would have hugged Argus must have been written all over her face because his eyes rounded out in unmasked surprise, and Anne believed if he hadn't already stood against the wall, he would have taken a step back.
For a breathless moment, she knew she should have felt embarrassed, but the wish to soothe him didn't stop. She wished she could sense his emotions or know the right words without looking presumptuous or otherwise stepping over the line. The problem was that she wanted to step over the line. Not for the first time since that night, when he'd shown his care for her in Hogsmeade, she felt he would have needed support. Perhaps not from her, but she would have been ready to offer it.
She would have been ready to step up and hug him again, showing she cared. And his eyes slowly calmed from surprise, first only reflecting his confusion, then the warmth in her gaze. His lips parted with a huff of disbelief, and his breath came shorter. Anne imagined he would have looked the same above her head if she had the audacity to hug him, and he was surprised or confused enough to allow it for a few seconds. The thought finally gave her a weak, sad smile. It was really such a shame that he would have probably been outraged if she had followed her heart, and she was apparently too cowardly to test his patience.
When Snape's lashes fell to close his eyes, and he hung his head, she almost regretted she had never moved. Then she noticed his smile despite his hair hanging about his face and partially hiding it. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth and looked up, so she saw something boyish dancing in his eyes. Standing in uncertain benevolence under this glance suddenly felt like being found, and Anne's face brightened up, too.
After a few seconds of wordless understanding, Snape nodded towards the door, and she took her leave without a word. It somehow felt safer. But the silly notion that this was indeed an embrace, more, it was one they both enjoyed, stuck in her mind.
It was a pity that in the morning, she only felt silly and embarrassed about all the nonsense she thought she'd mostly just imagined and scolded herself for even seeking Snape out after having a drink or a few. Nonsense! The only thing over the weekend she could do to make sense of the whole experience was to sort out the facts and information from the dazzling haze of her misconducted emotions and construct a way to look at Potter and Moody and make herself useful. Which was easier said than done, for she couldn't go close to the Gryffindor tower and had no courage to be around Moody.
Anne chewed her lips and cursed under her breath, hid in her tower and avoided the Smiths because Aida would guess she had a problem within the first minute after she entered the door…which called for two very different but similarly worried letters from her brothers on Sunday, delivered through the turret's south window because she couldn't force herself to eat in the Great Hall. Gavin openly showed concern and told her they missed her, whilst Caleb only asked whether she couldn't afford anymore to pop up in London at random, hiding his questions behind mocking jokes.
Anne lay back on her conjured pillows with a sigh and mumbled another string of expletives until her guitar gently rose from the floor and levitated closer.
"Pricey, no…"
The tiger materialised beside her, this time seeming a little taller than before. The swish of his playful tail also felt more cat-like than porcelain-cold, and she heard his soft purr.
"Argghh… I don't even know what to tell you about it! Everything I've done lately feels like a mess-up, yet he –" She stopped herself and caressed the tiger between the ears instead. "I don't know. I shouldn't even think about it, it's embarrassing, you know. But I can't seem to think about anything else because it's always in the way…"
The tail swished, and the purring softened as the guitar levitated a little closer.
"I don't think I can entertain you today," Anne admitted. "I'm afraid what song I would remember if I tried it anyway, and he surely…"
If there was such a thing as a questioning swish of a tail, Pricey made just that gesture.
"Sophie thinks he likes her, Tiger. I don't want to sound so silly, like she did when she told me that. I don't even know why he would single her out, although she is good enough with her things, but has never been that much into potions, and he is vexing me with twice as hard questions and spell building… and he told me about his worries with Moody and that strange kid in Gryffindor… I don't think he would ever let such things slip before her. But he doesn't ask me about my summer or keep me after class…"
Pricey let the guitar return to its rightful place and purred with understanding.
"You're such a good listener!" – Anne hugged him like a cat and stroked the sensitive furry throat. "And your appearance has greatly improved, too! A few more lessons from Mrs Norris, and you'll be ready to take a walk out on the corridors like a stray kneazle or a pet cat."
The tiger's bright and pointy teeth showed his disapproval.
"I know you are neither of those, but I also know you wish to look around," – she soothed him, her hand returning to spoil the tiger's ears. "What's the first thing you'd want to see?"
After a few seconds of purring noted the beast's approval of her touch, Anne sensed Pricey's curiosity, and images the tiger had seen in her mind now returned to her… the Common Room's window on the Black Lake, the Brewing Room, Snape…
"I don't think you should visit him, Pricey!"
The tiger shook his head under her hand.
"Because he would see through your guise!" – Anne explained. "I mean it, Tiger, Dumbledore, Moody's fake eye, and probably Severus Snape are all who would detect you, and we shouldn't risk that!"
Pricey showed his fangs again, and the image of Snape returned to their silent connection. It was from the night she had seen him in Hogsmeade under the moonlight. He looked so different there, with the bluish-cold light slipping on his shoulder-length hair and the evening breeze playing with the edges of his robe. He stood so tall, showing her his back and watching the moors like in an eighteenth-century painting… Anne didn't know what she would do if he turned to her one day with a smile like he tried to hide after Halloween, and with similar recognition playing in his eyes….
Before she could believe it was all true, and Snape was glad to have her around in the Brewing Room two nights before, she quickly regulated her thoughts and shot back an image of her Head of House being his strict and mocking self, imposing the simple rules on an errant second year. She'd just seen that an hour ago in the Entrance Hall when she hurried to the marble stairs, hoping he wouldn't turn and notice that she'd failed to greet him.
Strangely, the Tiger snarled again, and her guitar landed by her side with a soft thud.
"What do you want from me?!" Anne cried out, and a series of odd old pictures assaulted her as an answer, like a black-and-white film no one had watched for ages.
A girl in a garden was young and pretty in unfamiliar clothes, watching the bees around a flowery bush. At the same time, her governess struggled to redirect her attention to the books before her. The strangest was the point of view. It was as if Pricey remembered entering the garden beside a pair of booted legs whose owner radiated amusement and anticipation. When the girl jumped up and ran to them, she didn't miss caressing the tiger's ears while the newcomer taught her about the bees' habits and importance, subtly spelling a rosebud on the edge of one of the branches and showing the girl how it opened its petals.
The next series of pictures showed a blooming young lady in her early twenties entering a ballroom. Pricey must have taken part in the occasion as a delicate ornament on a mantel or some other preferred location because he didn't move in the room. However, the young man he used to escort earlier now stood aside, unable to hide his amazement, bowing towards the girl, who didn't as much as notice his presence in the ring of others.
Another jump forward, and the now not-so-young man was sipping tea in an orangery, conversing with the same girl, probably in her late twenties. She wore mourning, and Anne could sense the Tiger's contentment as the man listened to all her words.
The last pictures came from an elevated viewpoint as if Pricey was staring out of a window, watching over a garden where a middle-aged couple smiled at each other above their teacups and bees buzzed in the distance among the blooming flowers. It was idyllic.
"Why did you want me to see this?"
Pricey swished his tail somewhat impatiently and nudged her hand, showing the pictures of Snape in Hogsmeade and his former wizard friend's look changing from amusement to amazement after one another, then Anne saw herself compared to the girl in the ballroom.
"It's nothing like that, I assure you!" – Anne dismissed the whole issue, feeling her cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "He's my Head of House!"
Pricey aggravatingly replayed the scene where the young man explained the bees' business to the girl, encouraging her delight in nature.
"You shouldn't support this madness, you know!" Anne stood from the pillows and hastily threw a few notes into her book bag from the nearby table. "I could use your experiences better if you told me how to understand what is up with that Gryff boy! Or how am I supposed to advance at St. Mungo's? I hope to find you more sensible next I come here!"
Pricey's discontented grunt was so similar to Argus's that she almost softened and caressed his ear for farewell, but his hopeful expression reminded Anne of the memories, and she huffed and turned to escape as quickly as she could.
Unfortunately, the confusing things didn't end there. She couldn't escape joining Sophie for dinner in the Great Hall, and the Durmstrangs at the leg of the Slytherin table seemed to have accepted their new surroundings enough to begin to mingle. Krum held everyone at arm's length, but Nina, a tall hay-coloured hair girl, and her friend Panka seemed happy to talk to the seventh years, especially to the boys they were about to share NEWT classes in Charms. Hill and Marcus Flint looked ready to entertain them.
A boy called Morag also sat now with the Slytherins, anticipating his first class in Hogwart's seventh-year Transfiguration. Sophie looked curious enough to talk to him, too, but her NEWT classes were Potions, DADA, and Charms, which didn't interest Morag at all. The boys from her year also tried to engage him, especially Warrington and Pucey, who clearly hoped to get closer to the Durmstrang girls if they kept him company.
Anne could sense how futile Sophie's attempts were but couldn't publicly warn her off Morag. The fifth-years had even less chance to talk to the exchange students because they only seemed to care about those with whom they would share classes, and Hestia was right on cue. She gave all her attention to the Ravenclaw table, fixing her eyes on the Beauxbatons boys and only choosing food she could nibble while leering at them. It was even more outrageous than watching some of the boys getting flustered when they looked at the Beauxbatons girls.
The general atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted towards lewdness at a rate an Empath could hardly miss, and the guests hadn't even been present for a week! Anne looked up at the High Table but couldn't catch Snape's eye because he was staring at the Gryffindors again. His complexion promised no good, and he looked deep in thought, although Karkaroff kept talking to him. Anne doubted he registered so much as a word. Professor Moody, on the other hand, scanned the Hall with visible glee and calculation. He noticed every detail about the forming trench lines and probably planned on exploiting whatever he found.
With a disturbing feeling settling in her stomach, Anne decided to leave Potter for Snape and mind her own business about Moody. She might have been moments away from offering help before, but the emotions in the Great Hall were way too confusing, and she wasn't sure if she could trust her own feelings either. The best thing would have been to avoid Hogwarts altogether and perhaps seek out someone like Dan to help her sort out her thoughts and hormones before she tried to convince Sheambaum to let her advance at his department. She could cling to that thought until she returned to her dorm with the girls.
"You should have returned Warrington's goodnight, Borgin," – Hestia laughed then, throwing herself on her sister's bed. "He's your best bet if you don't want to go to Hogsmeade alone again, and you only have three weeks to get a date!"
"I'd rather date Filch's mop," – Sophie shuddered. "Some of us have standards if you know what that word means, although I seriously doubt that."
Hestia laughed at her. "Oh, do you? Sour grapes, Borgin! I happen to know that the tall boy from Beauxbatons is called Jacques, and he also has a cute friend for Flora. Morag wouldn't look at you if you paid him, and his buddy Pavel wouldn't even sit with us."
"But he would sit with Lucien, I bet," – Flora grinned. "Befriend that mop, Borgin, or you'll die a virgin. There's no help for Rosier, but you could do better!"
Anne let most of it fly and was glad Flora deemed her beyond help, remembering how her attempts to "assist her" had turned out in the past. However, Sophie's hurt feelings resonated around the room, and she made the huge mistake of looking at her.
"Oh really?" – Sophie retorted. "Then I suggest you two find dates for Hogsmeade because we're going with the Beauxbatons boys. And then you will both shut up for the rest of the year!"
With that, she left the dorm and the Carrows' mocking tittering behind, leaving Anne to fend off what she could while she most likely stormed to the Common Room.
"Bring her to reason, witchling. She could never arrange that," – Flora warned her, but Anne could only shrug and close her curtains. There was nothing yet that she liked about this Tournament. Not a thing at all.