Chapter Five: Erosion
In which Hermione gets under Severus’ skin. There are definitely lemons here.
The following morning at breakfast Severus set his cedar box on the High Table as had become his custom over the past several months. However, this time, it was clearly visible to the naked eye of any who looked in its direction, not merely if they were in private with Severus. A small gasp came from his right-hand tablemate. Filius Flitwick’s wide-eyed gaze was fastened upon the cedar, and he performed a complicated symphony with his wand as he addressed Severus.
“Extraordinary wards, Severus. They’ve altered significantly since I first saw them in your chambers. I have been making inquiries about your puzzle. It seems that this box is the exclusive calling card of …
“Mishima, Ltd. Yes, Filius, I am keenly aware of the box’s origins.”
Severus hadn’t truly foreseen the sustaining level of curiosity on the part of his colleagues. In fact, he’d heard nothing about the betting pool since the holidays. He hadn’t known that the pot was hovering at a thousand galleons, to be divided equally between the winner guessing the date and the winner guessing the contents. Studiously ignoring the imploring gaze of the diminutive and wriggling Charms professor, the Potions Master looked around the hall only to find that over half the students and the entire faculty was eyeing his treasure with some level of fascination.
Filius continued in his squeaky voice, almost breathless in his eagerness to impart his information, “But Severus, it isn’t just their calling card. Each box is tailored individually to the recipient. It takes quite a bit of knowledge of each client for the wards to be crafted. That’s why Mishima is so highly respected in the field. The old man was utterly brilliant. I met him in Kamakura in the early 40’s. He was the most remarkably innovative charms Master I’ve ever met. His family’s home is lovely, especially in cherry blossom season. It’s nestled high in the mountains overlooking the ocean, and the city is a charming blend of old world and new. It reminds me a bit of Hogsmeade.”
Severus allowed Filius’ excited rambling travelogue about rural Japan to wash over him as he surreptitiously examined the other reactions of his colleagues and the more astute students. Albus’ attention was fixed upon the box with sharp-eyed interest, as was Minerva’s. As far as the students, several of the Seventh Year Ravenclaws were talking quietly while taking furtive looks at him, the Weasley twins were animatedly talking to their cousin while Frank Longbottom pointed wildly at Severus’ small treasure from the Slytherin table. None of the Hufflepuffs were even glancing his way.
Filius continued to wax lyrical about his two trips to Japan, and Severus’ patience was worn thin. He had other things to do. Pocketing his box, noting the avid stares of a number of students, not to mention Filius’ almost covetous expression, the Potions Master swept from the Great Hall.
He expected to be put to a thorough interrogation by his colleagues at the very least, but none was forthcoming. He was relieved that the following two weeks were utterly devoid of questions and insinuations about his box, and Severus was pleased to be left to his own devices.
As the winter term passed, his days were filled with teaching and the practical application of the theories he’d read to deactivate the box’s wards, his evenings were filled with marking essays and patrolling the school, and his sleep was full of dreams about Hermione. For he dreamed of her every night. The dreams ranged from teasing to titillating, and he found himself frequently awakening more sexually aroused than he’d been for a number of years. After a week of increasingly erotic dreams, Severus knew he had to do something. He had to open that thrice-cursed box. Still, he was a Slytherin, and he was Severus Snape. He’d be damned if he was going to seek assistance or contact the haunting little chit until he’d succeeded.
Hermione’s message had said that she’d given him all the clues he needed to open the box. If only he could recall with clarity her words from last summer. He’d always prided himself that his recall was excellent. It’d saved his life more than once during his tenure as a spy for the Order. Now with all the fantastical and erotic images his mind was conjuring, Severus was having difficulty discerning the germ from the chaff.
Finally, in desperation, Severus resorted to using his Pensieve. He hadn’t used it since his painful break up with Narcissa Malfoy, and it’d be the first time in his life that he’d ever consigned a pleasant memory to its depths. Smothering a wry chuckle at the comparison between the two women who rated individual additions to his Pensieve, he deemed that, in fact, there was no comparison. One was leprechaun’s gold, the gilt disappearing over time to vanish into nothingness, while the other was solid and worth banking upon.
Severus retrieved the ungainly receptacle from his closet and returned to his sitting room. Making himself comfortable in his overstuffed chair, he prepared to retrieve the memories he needed to study. Reclining slightly, he used his ebony wand to remove several slender strands of writhing silvery substance from his temple, and added them to the swirling maelstrom of memories contained within the stone bowl.
Following the inclusion of his memories, Severus took several steadying breaths, smoothing his fingers over the carved runes around the lip of the bowl. He’d never been terribly comfortable viewing memories in his Pensieve, possibly due to the fact that he’d had so many wretched memories to store. Day-to-day living was easier without the continual bombardment of his excruciating past bludgering his mind. He swallowed hard as he calculated the number of personally mortifying and terrifying moments held so passively in the cold stone receptacle.
Calming himself, Severus gave the molten liquid a stir with his wand, deftly removing the ebony length without any strands of memory clinging to it, and watched until the most recent additions swirled around the surface. With a deep breath, he felt his gut clench, and, resolutely, he dipped his head forward, past the glassy surface and felt the familiar pull as he fell into the memory he’d chosen. August 31. The day Hermione gave him the cedar box. However, it wasn’t only the memory he’d expected. Instead, he’d inadvertently linked together a memory and a dream of Hermione.
Severus found himself standing next to his mirrored self. Pensieved memories always seemed so crisp, so real. He recognized the affronted anger and disbelief etched on the face of his memory self, banked into a mask of indifference. As both simulacrum and voyeur watched the retrieved recollection play itself out, the youthful, elegantly-clad witch rose from his old and well-worn leather couch, and crossed the room, listing the dates which fulfilled his ‘assignment’.
Hermione reached his desk and ran her slender hands across the smooth wood, carefully placing his cedar box on its surface.
Half of Severus’ mind catalogued and memorized the dates she recited, the other half of his mind greedily took in her appearance. At some point during the past few months, she’d become his aesthetic ideal. The expertly coiffed, wild, honeyed tresses, wisps of tendrils framing her face, the smattering of freckles across her pert nose, and her full and promising mouth were all lovely. But to Severus, it was the forthright expression of intelligent interest that sparkled in Hermione’s brown eyes which set her apart from other witches. The sharpness of Severus’ longing impelled him to step forward to touch the image of her, forgetting for a moment that he was merely a bystander, and she was not his to touch. He noted that his other self flared his nostrils as Hermione crossed to the door, and wished fervently that he could smell her unique fragrance. He regretted banishing her scent with a sharp ache in his chest, but the Pensieved fragments couldn’t retrieve scent, only sound and vivid pictorial evidence of things that once were.
“Oh, yes. One final significant date in my curriculum vitae. Yesterday, August 30, 2011. I realized that the greatest irony of my life, Severus, is the fact that I still love you. As an adult. I know it’s not requited, nor are my feelings anything but repellant to you. I’ve suffered a broken heart more than once. At least I know the remedy. Time and distance. I wish you well, Professor. I hope you find some joy.”
A frisson of recognition wrapped around his soul and squeezed. She’d been in love with him in August. More than six months ago. Severus hadn’t believed her then; it was blatantly obvious from the sneer upon his face. He’d been waiting for the trick, for the joke. He’d hardly believed her now, even though his heart was telling him the truth. But listening to her say it, he knew. She’d been telling the truth. It was an exquisitely painful revelation. And then, before the memory faded to nothingness, wish fulfillment surged into being; tempering, altering, reinventing. Hermione did not, as she had in real life, walk out of the room. And Severus, the voyeur, watched as his dream sequence played out, desire tightening his groin as his idealized-self realized his subconscious yearnings.
Gryffindor to the end, Hermione turned to face him one last time. Her hand wrapped around the doorknob, heart in her eyes, she almost whispered, “Severus? Is there truly no hope for us?”
Severus Snape, aloof, oft-reviled professor, took two long steps to her side, his speed causing his robes to flare in a gust of black. He stood well within her personal space and Hermione looked up at him, longing darkening her eyes from bittersweet chocolate to glittering, liquid obsidian. The tall wizard raised his hands, cupping her face as he dipped his head to catch the sigh escaping her lips. His mouth sucked in her breath as if it was his own, and he lightly brushed his lips across hers.
Almost unbidden, Hermione’s hands found their way to the solid wall of his chest, where they rested briefly, porcelain against ebony. Light and dark, day and night. Two halves of a whole. Without a word, Hermione leaned into Severus’ taller form. One of her hands strayed to gently stroke the goatee surrounding his expressive mouth. No shy, retiring schoolgirl this; Hermione was a woman grown. She leaned into him, deepening the kiss as her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer to her. A tiny breathless moan escaped her mouth.
Both Severus’ reacted to the sound. Severus, the voyeur, was breathing raggedly, doggedly holding onto the shreds of his control. His trousers were uncomfortably tight, almost painful. There was no real need for him to remain in the Pensieve. He knew how the dream sequence ended, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- step out of it now. This was so much more vivid than a blurred, foggy morning recollection. Anticipation made his mouth dry, sped his heart rate, and his blood thrummed in his veins. He’d never do this again, but now, this once, he’d watch and allow himself to believe that perhaps, in some reality, he deserved to ‘get the girl.’ Without rational thought, he stepped closer to the entwined couple.
Severus released Hermione’s face and wrapped his large hands around her upper arms, pulling her against him tightly. She was pliant, and her body seemed to meld with his, until the only differentiation between them seemed to be the vivid color of her scarlet silk blouse. He crushed his lips to hers, tasting her, taking her in a savage plundering of the sweetness she offered. And then, wrenching himself from her mouth, Severus buried his face in her suddenly unbound hair, groaning in his fierce need.
Hermione’s hands were moving, fingers flying in a frenzied urgency, unbuttoning his collar, his modified gambeson, a subtle black-on-black brocade, the fine linen shirt underneath, hurrying to get to her goal: his skin. Contact shock arced between their bodies, sparking their passion. Arching, Hermione threw her head back, her hair undulating in a tumultuous cascade down to her hips, revealing her long neck, offered in supplication to her lover’s impassioned assault. In counterbalance to her upper body, Hermione raised one silk-sheathed leg to wrap around Severus’ upper thigh, joining their bodies at the hips. She was the very picture of wanton desire.
Almost unknowingly, Severus, the bystander, grazed his palm across the cloth prison of his confined arousal. As the friction of his instinctive caress stimulated his increasingly hard erection, he groaned, his piercing black eyes riveted to the scene immediately before him. As the guttural sound was ripped from his throat, his doppelganger, too, groaned in concert. Need threatened to burst from the restrictions of thread and material, as one of Severus’ most heated dreams played out exclusively for him, pulling him closer, until he was within arm’s reach of the object of his desire. Envy for his other self seared through his chest as he watched…
Severus’ elegant, dexterous hands sought purchase and leverage. One hand insinuated its way into Hermione’s hair, cradling her head in his palm, angling it for ease of access to her kiss-bruised lips. He bent to take full advantage of the bounty offered for his, and her, pleasure and slightly diverted his trajectory. Severus’ face buried itself in the lee of her throat, the glossy dark hair of his goatee raising goosebumps on her porcelain skin as he nipped and licked his way up to her mouth. His other hand skimmed Hermione’s body; its path from her jaw, trailing incandescent desire down the satin skin of her exposed throat, lightly brushing across the hardening crest of her breast, still covered by vivid spider silk. Severus’ wandering hand circled her waist to find its way over the roundness of her hip until his long fingers wrapped around her upper thigh, pulling her closer, cinching her tightly to him. He ground his sheathed erection against her clothed hips.
Her whimper was answered by a raggedly-voiced, “mine,” as their hips rocked in the oldest rhythm known to man and wizarding kind. But it wasn’t enough. One delicate hand threaded through the baby fine, raven silk that many called greasy, only to grab a handful and pull him back, breaking their kiss.
Hermione gasped, ‘Now,’ and releasing Severus’ hair, she groped in her robes for her wand. In one swift flick and a slightly breathless “Intectus,” they were both naked.
Passive voyeurism was insufficient, and Severus found himself moving closer to the entwined couple, so close that he could see the movement of his doppelganger’s hair as Hermione gasped in the throes of her passion. His eyes raked over the smooth satin of her skin, the lush bounty of her breasts, the flush of arousal tinting her neck and cheeks. His breathing grew ragged and his throat dry as he held onto the last vestiges of his rational mind, and fervently wished that it was he and not his ersatz self who was…
…almost growling at the feel of Hermione’s heated skin and writhing body against his. Severus’ erection surged against the contact of the tight, protective curls of her pubis. A distant clatter of wand and stone sounded as Hermione attended to more immediate needs. Both hands grabbed onto his broad, lean shoulders, and she pulled herself against him, rubbing her neglected breasts against the scattering of his dark pectoral hair, relishing in the friction.
Severus bit Hermione’s lower lip, tugging her mouth back for his attention, and their tongues met, teasing, promising, and delivering an intensity of passion soon to be met by the rest of their bodies. In an almost seamless move, one which belied the newness of the maneuver, Severus’ hands glided to her buttocks and hefted her upward, and, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, he settled her onto his hardened shaft.
Tiny, encouraging cries filled the room while Hermione wriggled, rocking her body against Severus as he plunged into her, simultaneously kissing her with equal ferocity. With one staggered step, Hermione’s back was to the wall, giving more purchase for the Potions Master’s thrusts. One of his hands worked itself free from its support position to encircle one exposed and needy breast. Agile fingers tugged and teased the tightly furled peak until Hermione’s whimpers reached a crescendo, and then she came undone in his arms, his name reverberating from the walls. The conflagration of their consummation was like an incendiary potion, all subdued fire until the final ingredient is added, and then the fireball is scorching.
Severus never knew at what point he’d freed himself from the painful stricture of his trousers, but when Hermione climaxed, he was so close to her that he imagined the feel of her constricting around him. It was too much, and his shuddering release immediately followed hers. The force of his orgasm staggered him, and he widened his stance so as not to fall. He continued to stroke himself, prolonging his climax almost to the point of pain, as he watched his double’s hips thrust erratically to culmination. He groaned as he saw the stiffening tension of his memory self’s orgasm, envied the sated and relaxed expressions of the couple. The next dreamlike moment was one which had never before been clear; it’d always been lost by impending awakening, unremembered, and now never to be forgotten.
Hermione’s eyes sparkled with feeling and she ran her fingers delicately across Severus’ cheek, brushing his sweaty hair from his face. Leaning forward the fraction of an inch needed, she kissed him. It was loving and filled with her heart’s pledge.
Severus was so overcome by the emotional intensity of the gesture that he forgot himself, and reached one hand up to touch her, to wrap a stray curl of her hair around his fingers. His hand touched nothing. She wasn’t real. It was a dream, a fantasy. Anguish ripped his heart as harsh reality settled into his brain. He watched the final moment of the passion play and it left its mortal wound in Severus’ soul. With agonized eyes he saw his mirror image…
,,,gratefully respond to Hermione. He knew, where the real man did not, when to accept a gift freely offered. The disheveled and sated Potions Master drew her gently back into his arms, holding her tightly to him, never wanting to let her go.
Severus couldn’t breathe; his throat was so painfully tight that he abruptly terminated the session, pulling back into the reality of his chambers, his brain a seething mass of turmoil. Livid with himself for watching, for the need to watch, and consumed with envy at the ultimate tenderness of his dream self, Severus then realized that he truly had, indeed, participated á mano, while his simulacrum had coupled with his witch. It hadn’t been some surreal Pensieve-induced mental participation. He was a mess, physically and emotionally. Picking up his wand, Severus cast a cleansing spell -- his entire set of robes would need to go to the house elves. The moment of release had been indescribable, but the elation had lasted only seconds, replaced with self-loathing. Despondently, Severus retreated to his bath, uttering self-castigating epithets about wishes, beggars and kings.
The next two weeks saw a return of the remote and isolated Potions Master haunting Hogwarts. He was almost paler than the Bloody Baron, who, for the first time in a decade, had made himself scarce from the dungeons. Filius and Minerva shared looks over meals when their younger colleague actually stirred himself to attend. All inquiries as to his health were answered with an indifferent response. He wasn’t vicious to his students, in fact, he seemed almost as if he were ‘a Polyjuiced replica, devoid of the personality.’
The evening Minerva made that joking comment to him, Severus turned dull, umbral eyes to her and said, “The Polyjuiced version wouldn’t have been so lacking in perspicacity.” He’d then abruptly excused himself from the meal, citing essays to mark, and left the Great Hall.
Minerva had been vaguely amused by her colleague’s melodramatic moodiness, but now, her friendly concern turned to alarm. As she watched Severus’ billowing black robes depart the hall, she realized that she hadn’t seen his precious cedar box. In fact, she couldn’t recall seeing in it since Severus had begun to act so oddly.
After Filius had announced to the staff that the box was a Mishima, Ltd., Minerva had written to Hermione to confirm its authenticity. Hermione’s response had been that, while client confidentiality prevented her from revealing any information, even to her first mentor, the box in Severus’ possession was indeed legitimate. Minerva knew nothing more. It was driving her spare.
As soon as dinner was over, the Deputy Headmistress followed Albus to his office and accosted him. One-hundred-and-fifty-plus years of experience and wisdom are not a match for eighty years of tenacious Scottish stubbornness, and the Headmaster almost quailed before Minerva’s outburst.
“Albus, you know what is going on with Severus. You know everything that takes place in this castle. This isn’t acceptable. I’ve never seen him like this. You must fix it.”
She turned her worried hazel eyes toward the elder wizard. He’d been her friend and mentor for forty years and she’d rarely been truly angry with him, but her ire flared to life at the evidence of the amused twinkle in his crystal blue eyes.
“This isn’t funny, old man!” she snapped. “I’m worried about him.”
“Minerva, calm yourself. Please, sit down. Sherbet lemon?”
Albus recognized an eruption in the making, and curtailed his pleasantries and any attempt to divert her from the topic foremost in her mind. “I cannot ‘fix this,’ as you put it. I only suspect what is happening, I do not know. Minerva, the only one who can fix it is Severus.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do to help him? I can’t stand to see him like this. This is worse than the last days of the war. Albus, have you looked into his eyes?”
“Yes, my dear, I have. I’m not truly worried… yet.” Albus held up a hand when it looked as if his colleague was about to erupt once again. “No, Minerva, this is something Severus has to figure out on his own. We cannot interfere.”
She snorted in disbelief. When had Albus Dumbledore not interfered?
“Is it that damned box? I know it’s authentic. Hermione confirmed it, but gave me no further information. Client confidentiality…” Minerva sneered in a manner that would’ve drawn a chuckle from Severus. Her mind rapidly jumped to the wrong conclusion. “It’s cursed him. Someone sent him a cursed box. You know how many enemies Severus has made. I’ll get Bill Weasley. He’s the best curse-breaker we know. Albus, how could you have waited so long?”
Rising to her feet to find parchment and quill, Minerva was halted by Albus’ comment.
“It’s not the box that’s the problem, my dear. Please believe me. I think that it’s a combination of this time of year, and some unresolved personal issues that our Potions Master is facing.”
“The ‘time of year,’ Albus, whatever do you mean? He’s never been like this…” she trailed off as the significance of the ‘time of year’ became clear.
Every year since the fall of Voldemort, the Ministry of Magic hosted a banquet to honor the recipients of the Order of Merlin… First Class. For all his personal sacrifices and years of living precariously perched on the edge of discovery, for being instrumental in the downfall of the Dark Lord, Severus Snape had been granted the medal that Cornelius Fudge begrudged him. The former Minister of Magic, ably replaced five years ago by Amos Diggory, had gotten in the last blow of the war by awarding Severus Snape a Second Class medal.
After the initial presentation ceremony, where Harry Potter, the remaining Weasleys, Hermione Granger, and even Blaise Zabini were honored with First Class medallions, Severus’ his dreams of public recognition for his years of service were dashed. He’d retreated to his chambers for a week-long binge of Old Ogden’s Firewhiskey, after which he’d emerged from his solitude never to discuss his descent into despair. But each year, as the annual banquet approached, he’d sulk for a day or two and his associates would grant him his privacy in a show of silent support. This year’s banquet was the following week, and coincidentally, the day before Severus’ birthday.
Still, Minerva didn’t think it was quite enough to have sent the man spiraling into the depths in which he seemed to be wallowing.
“Albus this… this change can’t be the banquet. He’s never been this bad since that first year.”
“No, my dear, I think perhaps the timing is merely coincidental. I think our Potions Master is having a little difficulty reconciling a misconception. We cannot interfere, Minerva. I realize that you’re worried, but you must give him time.”
Reluctantly, his Deputy Headmistress conceded the point and returned to her chambers, to pace in front of her fire, wondering if she could refrain from meddling.
Deep in the dungeons, Severus Snape was brooding. He, too, was pacing in front of his fireplace, firewhiskey in hand as he drank and thought. His brain worked in a circular pattern of self-castigation and grief. The little cedar box, once something he’d carried with amused affection, was left strictly alone, perched atop the unread pile of books on the coffee table. He’d be shocked to realize how often his eyes strayed to its familiar angles, the well-loved patina of the wood. And each time his eyes settled on the Mishima family symbol, the constricting band of pain surrounding his heart tightened. He almost couldn’t breathe. The innocent little box seemed to taunt him -- tormenting his mind with images of a life he didn’t deserve and had come to realize, too late, that he wanted badly. And he’d thrown it away. Rather, he’d thrown her out of his rooms when she’d come to him with her heart and her gift in her hands.
Sudden anger threatened to consume him, and he hurled his glass into the fireplace, storming out of the sitting room and into his cold, lonely bedroom. Apprehensive that he might repeat his performance with the Pensieve, if only to relive his fevered imaginings of Hermione’s naked body, and revulsion that he’d stooped so low as to be a voyeur to his own fantasy, Severus grabbed the vial of Dreamless Sleep that he’d begun keeping at his bedside. He quickly downed the appropriate dose. There would be no sweet dreams tonight.
This pattern continued through the following week, students and peers giving him wide berth, almost as if he radiated a chill equal to those of the castle’s ghostly community. Minerva watched her younger colleague like a feline with only one kitten. He was so sunk in his misery that he had no idea she was watching his every move, directing Winky to make certain he ate. He didn’t even pause to wonder at the oddly-timed appearance of dishes in his rooms, late at night or in the early hours of a new day. Some days he ate, others he couldn’t stomach the thought of food. His forlorn heart ached with every breath he took, and he began to look unkempt, truly the greasy git of his own legend. His eyes were hollow and sunken, he slept only under the influence of potions, and his heart hurt. Only once before in his life had Severus felt this wretched, and it wasn’t when he’d broken his engagement to Narcissa.
Ironically, it’d taken having his ‘heart broken as an adult,’ words he’d so callously thrown at Hermione coming back to torment him, to consign his infantile infatuation with Narcissa Black to its rightful place among the superficial memories of his arrested development. The only other time in his life that his future had seemed as bleak as now was the morning after he’d participated in his first Death Eater raid, following along at Lucius’ heels, panting like the well-trained hound he’d been. He’d only had the Dark Mark for a week, when a large raiding party of seasoned Death Eaters led the novices on a training mission to a Muggle estate. He’d mistakenly thought they were going to engage in Muggle-baiting, with appropriately Obliviated memories as a parting gift.
Contrary to his expectations, and in the manner of feral pack animals, the Death Eaters had tortured and killed the family and servants, wreaking havoc within the large manor house. Severus had enjoyed the Muggle-baiting, but he’d not participated in the deaths. Something had constrained him, a personal distaste, perhaps a rebelling against the violent legacy of his father. His reason for joining the Dark Lord had been more personal, rather than the result of blind bigotry.
As dawn’s first rays of light had filtered into the large, baronial drawing room where Severus had been blasting tapestries hanging from the walls, they’d illuminated the previous beauty and home-like quality of the room. Two of the family, the most senior couple, had been slaughtered in front of the enormous fireplace by Malfoy and Avery, blood pooling and coagulating where the man and woman had laid, eyes open and unseeing. A beam of light had shone through the newly paneless windows and onto the one thing that had altered Severus’ reality: even in death, the elder couple had clung to each other, their hands linked, fingers entwined as their hearts had ceased beating. They had loved each other. It had been a concept so alien to Severus’ frame of reference, that he almost hadn’t been able to comprehend the evidence of his own eyes.
Severus had wanted to sneer. But something had held his arrogant condescension at bay. The small, relatively insignificant act of real devotion had certainly been something he’d never seen in his own home. The physical manifestation of something so indefinable as love had stopped him cold. The fact that it’d been Muggles who’d exhibited such an idealized concept had proven to be the catalyst for a life-altering decision. His painfully lonely soul had cried out at his willful participation in the tarnishing of something so rare, so precious.
Rodolphus Lestrange, as the most senior Death Eater, had ordered each of the novices to Apparate directly home, in order to avoid suspicion in the light of day. He’d uttered the “Morsmordre,” sending the lurid green mark into the sky, and had left an instant later.
Severus had spent the next thirty-six hours sitting in his dingy flat -- the only thing he’d been able to afford as an Apothecary’s assistant, since his pride had kept him from using Snape family money -- staring at his wand. He’d remembered the thrill he’d felt when he’d used his wand to make the Muggles cavort at his whim. It’d seemed harmless fun – at first – until Lucius and Avery had wielded their wands as weapons. The results had been bloody and horrific. Seated in his flat, Severus had perched on the edge of his narrow bed and refused to touch the slender ebony rod that could wield such destruction in so cavalier a manner. He’d vacillated between killing himself and turning himself in to the Ministry. In what he’d later believe had been a moment of divine inspiration, Severus had Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts, and had flung himself at Albus Dumbledore’s feet. Albus had granted him sanctuary and the ability to seek restitution for his soul.
And now, thirty-two years later, Severus found himself wishing with every fibre of his being that he could once again find absolution from Albus Dumbledore. But it was not possible. There was only one avenue of redemption this time, and Severus firmly believed that he had, by his own obtuse inability to see a Thestral after having witnessed death, essentially set an unbreakable Colloportus to the door of Hermione’s heart.
It was with this firmly entrenched belief that Severus sat at his dining table, his forehead pressed to the smooth wood, an open fifth of Old Ogden’s to his left, and his right hand wrapped around a large crystal glass filled with the fiery substance that would numb his heartache, if only he could drink enough. Not only was his heart torn, rent asunder from his own shortsightedness, but it was also the evening of the Ministry’s Banquet of Honor.
Every year, Severus dreaded this evening. It wasn’t that he begrudged the other recipients their celebration or their recognition… even Harry Bloody Potter had deserved the Order of Merlin, First Class. It was rather that he’d been passed over for the award. He’d spent better than twenty years dancing on the precipice between discovery and deliverance, only to have the Ministry backhand him with the Second Class medal, as if his contribution had no merit, no honor.
But this year was different. This year was infinitely more painful, because if he’d been given the award he’d rightly earned, Severus might’ve had an opportunity to see Hermione at the Banquet. As the recipient of an Order of Merlin, First Class, she was one of the most notable invitees. He’d never known whether she attended, he never read the Daily Prophet’s coverage of the event, and now the opportunity to discover if she might be present was lost to him.
Thus the stringy-haired wizard was seated at his small dining table in the dungeons of Hogwarts, drowning his heartache and his sorrows. A pounding at his door interrupted his solitary descent into melancholy, and he begrudged any moment of distraction. He ignored the sound, and poured himself another hefty shot.
The pounding grew louder, and the possibility that it was a student needing assistance intruded on his increasingly hazy thoughts. Although he wasn’t on duty this evening, something might’ve happened which required his assistance. The ingrained habits of twenty-five years guided his strides to his entry, and he flung the door open, to the entirely unexpected sight of a formally clad Blaise Zabini, a fifth of Old Ogden’s firmly in hand, leaning against the door frame.
“What are you doing here? You have a Banquet to attend.” Severus had meant to be snide, but instead his words were slightly slurred, having already consumed the better part of his own fifth.
“I’m not going. I’ve decided to boycott these events until you have your medal. They’re boring, and while it was quite exciting the first few years, when I let you prod me into going, I’m not going if you’re not. Lavender’s at home, some sort of ‘witches night in,’ and I decided to come join you in your annual binge.” The tall, curly-haired wizard crossed Severus’ threshold, navy dress robes billowing nicely in his wake, and folded his tall frame comfortably into one of Severus’ chairs.
In the face of his protégé’s determination, Severus quirked the first smile he’d had in weeks, and closed the door, crossing to his customary chair. Together, with minimal conversation, the two ex-spies companionably drank themselves into a stupor. By midnight, Severus was snoring, his head dropped to his chest, his empty glass tumbling to the floor.
Blaise, who wasn’t nearly as drunk as he’d let Severus believe, Mobilicorpused his mentor into his bedroom, and onto the large bed. When Minerva had owled him the day before, he’d agreed to forego the incredibly boring honor banquet in favor of spending the time with Severus. He’d thought her concern was misplaced, evidence of her over-protectiveness, and hadn’t really believed her assessment of Severus’ mental condition. After all, he’d seen the wizard at the beginning of the year when Severus had been more relaxed and at peace than Blaise had ever seen him. But seeing the tall wizard tonight, haggard and ill-kempt, had shocked him. He was intensely pleased that he’d come, and had been more than happy to keep Severus company.
He flicked a duvet to cover his friend and quickly set things to rights in the sitting room, and then Blaise departed, planning to stop by Minerva’s chambers before Floo’ing home. He wanted to know more about what was ailing his mentor.
While Minerva catalogued the list of symptoms that Severus was displaying to her sympathetic listener, the object of her concern was, for the first night in weeks, sleeping without the aid of Dreamless Sleep.