Comfort

You were always a bit of a mystery to me. I would sit in dark corners that first year at school, fighting down the twisting ache of homesickness and I would watch you, wound tight, twitchy, angry. You would read by the fire in the evenings, and you kept to yourself. So much darkness… you fascinated me. My second year you were in tight with the Black boy; it seemed to calm you a little, but only a little, and then third year came and went so fast. My brother Stewart drowned that year, and all I can remember is the pain. And then you were gone.

You look different than how I remember you. Taller. Straighter. Your eyes are darker; you're more sure of yourself, but also… also sadder. True, I was only in third year in your last, so no doubt my perceptions of you have faded, but you seem braver, somehow. If you are nervous now, standing up in front of a class of those of us who remember who you were, what you were then, you hide it well.

It must be difficult taking over a sixth year class halfway through the year. Slughorn had been wanting to retire for years. We all knew it, but we were so shocked when we returned from Yule holiday to find you behind the old ebony desk at the front of the room. You didn’t even look up at us as we entered, just continued to quietly record data in the ledger in front of you. The whispers started almost immediately. It was as though you didn’t even hear them. After a moment you lifted your quill to dip it in the ink pot beside your ledger.

“Quiet…” Your voice was only loud enough to carry to back of the room, but not harsh. It was still dark, though, and slightly dangerous. There was a warning in that tone, one that refused to be challenged.

Millicent Meadows leans over beside me, her perfect blond hair falling down like oceans of gold, pooling in little piles around her hands on the table as she whispers in the ear of the equally striking brunette next to her. Violet Bulstrode laughs, and then whispers back. I can barely hear them. Something about the place going to the dogs, and a name, a name I remember them calling you once – especially that nasty group of Gryffindor boys.

You look up in our direction with a scowl. I can only assume that we will be brewing straight off, so I’ve started to twist the frizzy mass of red hair I loathe so much into a knot at the base of my neck. Your eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments and then move quickly away to the girls beside me.

“Miss Meadows and Miss Bulstrode, is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”

Millie bats her long lashes at you sweetly, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “No, Professor.” Her tone is sickly sweet, and I imagine that there are a million other things she would like to say. It is well-known that her parents are staunch supporters of Voldemort’s cause. It is also rumored that you were a part of the same organization, but… if you are here now, then you must have…

You start in on the lesson then. You are strict and exacting. Everything must be powdered, diced and measured to your inordinately perfect expectations. You stroll down the aisles doling out orders and advice whether they are solicited or not. I want to get a better look at you, so I purposefully powder my boomslang skin too coarsely. You walk by. I know you are looking down at it.

“Miss Bulstrode, just what exactly is that?” I look over at Violet’s cauldron. It is belching out a foul smelling cloud of black smoke.

Something in your tone seems to have struck her dumb. You lean over a little to get a better look, your long, pale fingers tenting on the table right under my nose. You mumble something under your breath and the mess in her cauldron disappears with a small pop. Wandless magic. I feel a little thrill. I was close enough to you to feel the energy of it pass by me, through me, and it’s left me electric. “Start over, Miss Bulstrode. You’ve less than half an hour, so unless you want a failing mark on this assignment, I suggest you hurry.”

I steel myself. You will address the small mess I’ve made next, of that I am certain. I don’t dare look up for fear that I will flush furiously. I can feel your eyes on my work, but to my great surprise and disappointment you pass on to the next desk without a word.

Three weeks. Three weeks of classes, of me making every attempt I can think of to get your attention, and you still haven’t spoken to me even once. Today, I intend to raise my hand and leave it up until you look at me, until you at least acknowledge me. It’s important and I don’t know why.

I sit at my desk, refusing to touch the ingredients laid out before me until you answer my question. But again you ignore me. The second time you walk by without acknowledging my raised hand. I sigh with frustration and drop it. My fingers are starting to feel numb.

“You know…” Violet’s voice is just loud enough for me to hear. “I would never have guessed Professor Snivellus to have any real taste, but apparently he still has enough sense to know a Mudblood when he sees one.” She sneers over at me, and I sit up a little straighter. Let her say what she wants; I’m used to it by now. How I ever managed to get sorted into Slytherin with my blood status is beyond me.

You are a few desks ahead of me, and I think I see you turn your head a little in my direction at the comment, but then I decide I must have imagined it. There’s no way you could have heard Violet at that distance.

It’s raining today. Spring seems long in coming this year. They say it’s him, they say that his magic has grown so strong that he can control the weather at will. I secretly doubt it. No one’s magic is that powerful, is it?

You look tired. I’ve all but accepted that you will ignore me in class, so I am surprised when you speak to me directly for the first time. I’ve stopped to gather up the books that Millie knocked not-so-subtly from my arms as we were exiting the classroom. It’s lunch, so there’s no hurry.

“What do you intend to do about that?”

I start a little at the sound of your voice from the front of the classroom. For some reason I thought that you had left with the others. I look up, hugging the books to my chest, rather embarrassed that the first time you speak to me should be under such circumstances.

“Sir?”

“That.” You nod toward the books in my arms, your eyes traveling from them to the door and back to me. “It will only get worse if you let them continue.”

“It’s not so bad,” I offer. “I’m used to it.”

I think I see something flash across your eyes, but it is too brief to identify. “Getting used to it isn’t doing yourself any favors, Miss Braithwaite.”

“It’s… it’s my blood status, sir.”

“What’s that to do with anything?”

“I’m in Slytherin, sir, and I… I’m a Mudblood, you see.”

Your expression shifts a little, into something I almost think might be a wince, but it passes quickly, and I can’t be sure. “I would appreciate it if you did not use that word in my classroom, Miss Braithwaite, and most certainly not when referring to yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your black eyes are searching my hazel ones, looking for something, but I have no idea what. I feel simultaneously frozen and aflame. I can feel my skin erupting into goosebumps, and my mouth feels dry. I lick my lips to moisten them, and say nothing.

After a moment you tear your eyes away from mine and turn back to the potions cabinet. “That will be all, Miss Braithwaite. You may go.”

I hurry out of the classroom and back to the common room, my heart hammering against my chest. It isn’t until I have dumped my books into my trunk and thrown myself ingloriously onto my bed that I suddenly realize my cheeks are damp.

I don’t know why.

It’s taken me awhile to find the last of my things, but I’ve finally managed to Summon all my belongings from the various and sundry hiding places they’ve been relegated to throughout the year. My housemates seem to think it great sport.

I’ve missed lunch again. I’ll be starved by the time I get back to London. You are coming down the corridor beside me when I reach the foot of the stairs that lead up from the dungeons.

You nod politely, motioning for me to go ahead. The staircase is so narrow that single file is always preferable. After that day in the spring, you have spoken to me on occasion to answer a question or two in class, but I’ve not had an opportunity to speak to you alone again since. I pluck up my courage. Instead of going up the stairs, I turn to face you.

“Sir, I wanted to thank you for classes this year. I… I learned far more than I ever did under Professor Slughorn, and I hope very much to see you again next year.” I need to know. I need to know if you are coming back. We seem to go through Defense Against the Dark Arts professors like Violet Bulstrode goes through rouge, and I very much hope that we won’t be losing our new Potions professor next year as well.

“Oh…” You look a little taken aback, but only for a moment. I see your usual cool façade slip into place in an instant. “Oh yes, I’m sure you will, Miss Braithwaite. That is, if you are planning on returning for your seventh year.” I know what you mean. Many parents have started to pull their children from school due to the growing tensions.

“My parents are Muggles, sir. They are fairly ‘out of the loop’ when it comes to wizarding current events. I’ll be back. I wouldn’t miss my seventh year for the world.” What I want to say is that I wouldn’t miss the chance of getting to see you every day for another year, but I hold my silence.

Your eyes flicker suddenly and uncomfortably away from mine, and for a brief moment I fear that I might have said that out loud. You clear your throat before looking up again. “You are a good student, Miss Braithwaite. I will be pleased to have you.”

I smile, and then turn and start up the stairs. I stop a few steps up and turn back to look over my shoulder at you. “I’ll see you next autumn, Professor.”

“Yes, Gwendolyn, next autumn.”

I had been dreading the long, boring days of summer, but now, though my stomach twists with hunger on the train ride back to London, my heart fairly sings. The sound of my first name on your lips would be enough to sustain me through thirty summers, I think.

First day of classes, and I am shocked at how worn down you look, how pale and gaunt and exhausted. I wonder what you have been doing all summer that has taken such a toll. You are just as much a taskmaster as you ever were, though.

I am engrossed in my brewing when I sense the shadow of you over me. I look up. “Too fine, Miss Braithwaite. That aconite is chopped much too fine. Unless you harbor a secret desire to see that cauldron of yours sprout fur and start walking about the classroom of its own volition, start over.” I nod and do as you say, encouraged that the year already seems to be looking up.

I’ve eaten too many sweets, I tell myself.

I’m sitting upright, wide awake, breathing hard in an attempt to quell the fading terror of the nightmare. Or perhaps it is only because it is Samhain. The veil is so much thinner on this night of all nights. Such a horrible dream it was, too. Blood and screaming and death. Now I’m left only with a heart-wrenching sense of loss, and the echoes of a thick and suffocating darkness that I can’t seem to shake.

“Gwen? What’s wrong?” Morgaine is sitting up now too, her blankets pulled up around her nose, her pale blue eyes wide in the dim light from the stove across the room.

“It’s nothing,” I whisper. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

She doesn’t seem to need further encouragement.

I roll over and try to go back to sleep, myself.

You aren’t in the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning, nor are you in class that day. You are missing the next day too. At lunch they announce the Potter murders and Voldemort’s disappearance. You still aren’t at your usual spot at the table, and I remember then that I had seen you with her on occasion in my first year. There had been some sort of row, the same boys that always seemed to torment you, so they said; you had lashed out at her, and she had never forgiven you, or so the rumors went at the time.

I had only been a child, and I remember little, but I wonder at it now. What had she been to you once? What had it done to you when she married that boy? The pain I had felt from the nightmare the night before slams into me like a lorry, and I feel like I am suffocating.

The air outside is cool and crisp. It will start snowing in another few weeks, and then Yule will be here.

The grass beneath my feet is brown and dry. It crunches beneath my shoes as I walk toward the lake. I look at the glassy, slate grey surface of the water reflecting the muted sky above. The emptiness seems to be overwhelming me. It is not mine. I’ve suffered beneath the curse of this empathy for enough years to know that, but I’ve never felt anything this strong. The urge to walk slowly into that icy water, to let it surround me, envelop me, fill my lungs and weigh me down is a siren’s song I find difficult to resist.

I breathe deeply, letting the cool air clear my head. I am getting ready to turn and go back when I see a blot of black on the landscape that I instantly know is you. You have emerged from the forest and are walking toward the lake. I duck behind the nearest tree.

You look worse than I’ve ever seen you. Skin pale and sickly yellow, like old parchment stretched across bone, deep black rings beneath your eyes, and you haven’t shaved. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you unshaven.

You walk to the water’s edge. I am close enough to see that your hands tremble only slightly. Your eyes look dead. It feels wrong to be watching you now, like this, in a moment that is so obviously private, but I am worried about you too, and I don’t want to leave until I see you return to the safety of the castle.

You walk closer to the water’s edge and stare out across the mirror-like surface of the lake. You are so close that the water is lapping gently against the toes of your shoes. I hold my breath. You take another step and I move from my hiding place.

“Professor?”

You swing around, your eyes haunted, hunted for the briefest of moments, and then nothing but numb. You step back naturally, as though nothing is amiss. Your foot is sopping wet up to the ankle, but I pretend to take no notice.

“Miss Braithwaite. What are you doing on the grounds at this hour? There are classes.”

“Yes, I… I know, I… I just had to get some air. Things are rather tense in there since… well, Professor Dumbledore announced…”

You nod and look over my shoulder toward the forest before returning your eyes to mine. “Fifty points from Slytherin, Miss Braithwaite.”

“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry.”

There is a long stretch of silence. If it is making you uncomfortable, I can’t tell. Your eyes are locked on mine, but I wonder if you even see me.

“Is it true, do you think, then? Voldemort – do you think he is really gone?”

You blink once as though coming back to the present. “Don’t say that name.” You rub absently at your forearm.

“So then you think that...”

“I don’t know what I bloody well think!” you shout suddenly, looking a little wild. Your voice cracks and I wonder if you are going to cry. I take a small step back.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, sir.” I long to leave, to let you be, as you so obviously long to be, but I am too concerned to do it.

You sigh, rubbing a hand wearily across your eyes. Your knuckles stand out, small knots on bone. You have gotten so incredibly thin. I wonder if there is no one who cares enough to remind you to eat.

“Professor, forgive me if I am too bold, but… have you eaten at all in the last couple of days? You look unwell.”

“I’m fine, Miss Braithwaite.” You fold your arms across your chest, whether from the cold, or in a subconscious attempt to shut me and my insufferable concern out, I don’t know. “And yes, that is too bold.” You sound angry, and I am encouraged.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

You say nothing and so I race to fill in the silence.

“As you’ve said, I should probably get to class. Are you heading back to the castle yourself?”

You look longingly out at the lake one last time, and then turn back to me. “Yes, I suppose I had better. Come then. You have now missed the entirety of Charms. That will be detention, I think.”

I want to object that it should be Professor Flitwick who administers a detention for missing his class, but I don’t. Better that you are not alone evenings for awhile.

Flitwick must have agreed, because it is after dinner and I am elbow deep in cleaning out the potions cabinet. I suppose I should be rather flattered. I don’t think you would let just any student do such a job. It takes a rather well-developed eye to determine which ingredients are past their prime, and which are just starting to go south.

You are sitting at your desk, and have said nothing all evening. You are marking essays, I think. You weren’t at any meals again all day, and I am now fairly certain that you haven’t eaten at all in at least three days. Dusting my hands on my skirt, I reach into my pocket for the bun I stashed there at dinner, and approach your desk. “Sir…?”

“I don’t recall telling you you could speak, Miss Braithwaite.” You continue to stare down at the parchment in front of you.

“No, sir. I just wanted…”

“Then why are you still talking?”

“I just wanted to…”

“Twenty more points from Slytherin, Miss Braithwaite, and if you know what is good for you, you will cease this unsolicited prattling and get back to work.”

I don’t care what is good for me, but I think I am almost certain what is good for you. I reach out and slide the bun, wrapped tightly in a napkin, in front of you. “I only wanted to give you this, sir. I couldn’t help but notice that you missed supper again tonight, and I…”

“Detention, Miss Braithwaite!” you snap, finally looking up from the essay you are marking. “Tomorrow night. Here. The same time.”

“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir.” I turn away, and go back to the potions cabinet. There is a smile on my face.

Tonight you have me scrubbing out cauldrons. No magic permitted. I am waffling between relief that you seem to be getting a little of your old venom back and wanting to curse your name for subjecting me to such degradation.

I brought you a sandwich tonight. A little roast lamb between two halves of a dinner roll, and a small treacle tart as well. I set them on your desk without comment when I approached it for the evening’s assignment. You made no remark, but when I look up at one point you are examining the sandwich, peeling back the bun to sniff at the meat. You scowl and toss it back down onto the napkin again.

“It’s lamb,” I speak up.

“Quiet…”

“Please sir, you have to eat something. I remember when my brother died four years ago, everything tasted like sawdust, but I knew that I had to eat, and…”

You sigh, and slam the quill you are holding down onto the desk. “Miss Braithwaite, I would have thought that you would have learned your lesson last evening. When you are doing detention in my classroom there is to be no talking. Is that understood?!”

You are looking at me now, and I feel my cheeks flush a little. “Yes.”

“Then kindly shut up.”

I blink at your bluntness. “Y-yes, sir.”

You go back to your marking, but when I stack the last of the cauldrons on the table in the corner and return to your desk to tell you I am finished, both the sandwich and the tart are gone.

The winter seems abnormally bleak and cold this year; fitting, I suppose. In all these weeks I still haven’t managed to shake your darkness, your heaviness, your grief. Some days I feel as though I am walking around half mad. It is harder and harder to remember where I end and you begin.

The detentions have continued, though, intermittently, and now the headmaster has called me to his office. I wonder if it is because I have always been a perfect student until this year, or whether there is more to it than that. I suspect the latter. There is always more than meets the eye with Professor Dumbledore.

He offers me tea and biscuits. I politely refuse both. He smiles, but there is a slight tension to it. He leans back in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Miss Braithwaite, do you know why you might have been called here to my office this evening?”

“I can only assume it has something to do with the number of detentions I have received this term, sir.”

“Correct you are, Miss Braithwaite. Your Head of House, Professor Burke, seems rather concerned with the amount of time you have been spending in the Potions classroom after hours.”

“I can hardly imagine why, sir. My marks continue to be high in all my classes, and…”

He raises a hand and I fall silent. “Precisely. Normally, when we see a student’s behavior change so drastically there is a corresponding drop in their marks, but you continue to excel in all your classes, and your behavior, too, seems to be exemplary in every subject but Potions…” He pauses, his sparkling blue eyes searching mine. “Now, if something has happened between you and Professor Snape that I should be aware of...?”

“Sir, he is my professor; I hardly think he would allow a personal dislike for a student to color his treatment of them?”

The headmaster’s blue eyes soften, but there is something deadly serious behind them too. “It is not a personal ‘dislike’ I am concerned about, Miss Braithwaite.”

I feel instantly affronted, but at the same time feel a strange surge of electricity rush through my veins. “With all due respect, sir, just what are you insinuating?”

“You are upset. I understand that. But Gwendolyn, you must know that as headmaster it is my responsibility to see to the safety and wellbeing of all my students, and…”

“And what about your staff…?” His eyes widen a little and I swallow hard, hardly able to believe that I have just interrupted him. “Sir,” I quickly add in an attempt to soften the blow.

“Yes,” he replies softly, “and my staff.”

I open my mouth, wanting so much to contradict him, but I clamp it shut again, catching myself just in time.

“I believe you have something you very much want to say…”

“I spoke hastily, sir. Forgive me. No… I… I’ve nothing to say.”

He leans back in his chair and continues to stare at me with those disarming eyes. I’ve never had so prolonged a conversation with the headmaster before in all my years at Hogwarts, and I am astounded at his charm. It’s subtle, oh so very subtle, but it twists its way inside you, prying your heart and mouth open almost in spite of yourself. He continues to stare at me, and I know that somehow he already knows; that my only choice is to be out with it. That I won’t be leaving until I do. I wonder if perhaps he mightn’t have been a Slytherin when he was in school.

“It is only that… I don’t believe it advisable for Professor Snape to be left alone too much. He… he hasn’t been the same since the Potter murders. He doesn’t eat. I doubt he sleeps much either, by the look of him, and he… there is a level of despair there, that…” I let my voice trail off. I’ve already said far too much.

“Has he confided in you?”

“No, sir. Professor Snape has a policy of ‘no talking’ during his detentions. He marks essays and I clean cauldrons, organize the potions cabinet, et cetera.”

“Ah, but you mention his despair. If he has not confided in you, then…”

“I can feel it, sir.”

“Feel it?” He has leaned forward in his seat ever so slightly now, a soft furrow between his bushy white brows.

I feel cornered, trapped, like some sort of fascinating insect on display. “Since… since I was a child, sir. I… it was one of the things that first emerged, even before the more usual magic. It was one of the ways I knew I was a witch. I… I feel other people’s feelings as though they were my own.”

His blue eyes widen just a little and he sits back in his seat again, fingers returning to tent beneath his chin. “How interesting…”

I don’t think I like his tone. It makes me feel as though he is tucking away the information for future reference, as though I might be something of use, to be filed and catalogued, and then pulled from storage and dusted off when necessary.

“And so this ‘magic’ of yours has caused you concern for Professor Snape’s welfare, has it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see…. Would it set your mind at ease, Miss Braithwaite, to know that I do have a concern for Professor Snape’s welfare; that I have, of late, been keeping a very close eye on him? So you see, there’s really nothing to worry about. He is in good hands.”

“But he doesn’t eat!”

“Short of forcing food down someone’s throat, which, believe me, Madame Pomfrey is more than capable of if it becomes necessary, one cannot force a person to eat.”

“He eats what I bring him.”

One white eyebrow arches a little toward the ceiling. “Does he, now…”

“Yes, sir.” I keep wondering why I don’t just shut up.

He observes me silently for a few more minutes, and then gets to his feet. “I think that it is fair to say that the number of detentions you have been issued of late has been excessive. You may count on less in the future. You may go, Miss Braithwaite.”

You are back to refusing to acknowledge me again. I wonder what it is that Dumbledore has said to you.

I’ve just gathered the needed ingredients for the day’s lesson and am laying them out in the proper order, when I find you standing beside me. I look up. “You’ve no partner,” you state flatly.

“Sir, I… I’ve never had a partner. I prefer to work alone.”

“No, you need a partner.” Your eyes scan the room and stop on William Spencer. I cringe. No… not Spencer… anyone but Spencer. Gryffindor. Quidditch Captain. Total and utter prat.

“Mr. Spencer, Miss Braithwaite needs a lab partner. You will be assigned to her for the rest of the term, as well as the next.”

“But sir, I already have a partner.” He inclines his head casually in the direction of the rather dashing boy sitting beside him.

“And now you have a new one.”

Spencer looks my way and rolls his eyes in irritation and disgust. I’m just as thrilled as he is. By the end of class, the potion is a mess. I blame him. He doesn’t seem to care. I’m seething. I’ve a mind to stay after class and give you a piece of my mind, but then I catch myself.

What on earth is wrong with me?

My parents have gone to New Zealand to visit my father’s side of the family for Christmas. I was given the option of going with them or staying at school. I chose school. Two whole weeks nearly alone in the castle with the whole of the grounds, the library and the common room at my disposal sounds too good to be true; better yet, two whole weeks with the possibility of having you all to myself. The decision was an easy one.

I am in a good mood, then, when I stumble out of the cold into the warm pub in Hogsmeade and see you sitting alone at a table in the shadows of the farthest corner. I order tea and then move to your table. “Good afternoon, Professor.” You look up at me, and I think you look a tad drunk.

“What do you want?”

“Polite as ever, I see.” I feel it instantly: something is different. I would never have spoken to you so casually in class.

You scowl at me, and then stare back down into a glass of what looks suspiciously like Firewhisky.

“May I at least sit down?”

“Do what you want,” you grumble.

I do. I sit down across from you and wrap my hands around the warm cup of tea I’ve brought with me from the bar. You look a sight: unshaven again, eyes heavy and blood–shot with lack of sleep. Your hands shake as you pick up the glass and take another gulp. I suspect you haven’t been eating again.

“Have you eaten today?”

You stare into the glass and refuse to answer.

“You really should eat, you know.”

“Haven’t you learned to keep your silence yet, Braithwaite?”

I smile. You aren’t looking, so what does it matter? “I think you’ll find that I can be quite stubborn when I think it necessary.”

You mumble something under your breath that I don’t quite catch, but I distinctly hear the word ‘Gryffindor’ and a long string of what sounds like profanity. I smile again. “I’m going to order something for you to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You always say that.”

“Then perhaps you had better accept the truth of it, and shut your mouth for once.”

“You’re in a foul mood.”

“I wasn’t until you came in.”

I sigh. “Do you know what I think?”

“No, but I’m sure you are going to tell me.”

I ignore the jibe. “I think that you are determined to kill yourself – and before the year is out, too.”

You mumble under your breath again, and I reach across the table, putting a hand on your arm. “I’m getting you something to eat.” It isn’t until I am back at the bar ordering you a plate of fish and chips that I realize what I’ve done. My hand starts to burn red hot at the realization, and I feel my cheeks following suit. I wait for the order to be up and my blood to cool, and then order a coffee and return to the table.

You’ve finished off the Firewhisky, and somehow managed to convince someone to bring you another. I pull it away, replace it with the fish and chips and coffee, and sit back down.

You stare down at the plate.

“Eat it.”

“I told you, I…I’m not…” Your voice sounds suddenly broken. You are obviously drunk now, but it is more than that. I realize that you are trying not to cry.

“Please…” I murmur. “Please, just eat it…”

I watch as you master your emotions, and then, without another word, you push back from the table, get up, and walk out of the pub into the gathering dusk. I sit there blinking in confusion. The pain that reaches out and clings to me, tangling its dark and desperate tendrils around my heart, is intense. It holds on, and holds on, and won’t let go. Taking a last sip of tea, I leave, myself.

I have to walk quickly to catch you. You are halfway back to the school, and your dark coat and hair blend in so well with the semi-darkness that I have to squint hard just to distinguish you from the shadows. When I finally catch up, I fall into step beside you. “I’m sorry.”

You ignore me.

I run to catch up, and reach out for your arm again. “Severus, please. I’m sorry.” I realize my mistake the moment it is made, and yank my hand away again. I can feel the blood draining from my head. I feel faint.

You turn then, your face a mask of anger, bitterness and pain, and something else, something I have never seen there before. I wonder at it. “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

And then suddenly you are kissing me. Something at the back of my mind tells me that you are drunk, that you don’t know what you are doing, that I should stop you or you will only have one more thing to hate yourself for, but the pleasure of it renders me mute. I’ve have dreamed of this, and recently, yes, even dared fantasize about this, and despite the fact that your breath is sour with the bottom note of whisky, your lips and your tongue leave me helpless. You are clinging to me like a drowning man, and I can taste the salt of tears on my lips – whether mine or yours I do not know.

You don’t know it, but this is my first real kiss. I can hardly count Regulus Black in that unfortunate game of “spin the bottle” third year. Your body is hot and tense beneath your coat, and I think that perhaps this might end badly if I don’t end it soon. I attempt to pull back a little, but you hold on tight, your kiss deepening, until I hardly know how it is I am still standing.

“Se… Sev… Severus…” I murmur against your lips. And then, finally – “Professor…” I know the moment the word registers with your foggy brain. It’s like a high-voltage jolt up your spine. You jerk, then pull away suddenly; your hands drop to your side, and you step back. The look on your face is…

I’m more worried about you now than I’ve ever been. “You’re drunk,” I state plainly.

Your brows knit together, and you spin around on your heel suddenly, running a hand quickly through you hair in agitation. I think that maybe you will just leave, but you turn back around, take one look at me, then turn your back to me again. “Fuck.”

“You’re drunk, Professor. It’s alright. Go back to the school. Go to sleep. You’ll… you’ll probably have forgotten all about this in the morning.”

“Fuck,” you say again.

“I’ll go back first. You wait awhile and then follow. Everything will be alright.” It strikes me as strange that I am the only one thinking straight, that I’m the one arranging things, covering our tracks; protecting you, I suddenly realize.

You’re pacing now, back and forth in the darkness. You bring your hands up and bury your face in them every so often, then drop them again, fingers curling into tight fists against your palms, pressed in so tight I’m afraid you might draw blood.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, when you are more… when you can think straight. I… I’m going to go now, okay?” I start walking. I don’t look back. I lick my lips. I can still taste you there.

When I get back to the school, and stroll through the front doors into the entry, Professor McGonagall is there waiting.

“It’s after dark, Miss Braithwaite. You know the rules.”

“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry. I lost track of the time.”

She looks me up and down suspiciously. I wonder if I look different. I feel different.

“Are you quite sure you are alright, Miss Braithwaite? You look flushed.”

I realize that my hair must be horribly askew. I was in such a daze, I didn’t think to check it. I don’t want to lift a hand to it now; it would only draw attention to something she may possibly not have noticed.

“I’m fine, Professor.”

Her dark brows knit together above her spectacles, and then she comes out with it, in typical Gryffindor fashion. “Did you see Professor Snape in Hogsmeade, Gwendolyn? I do believe I saw him head out that way this afternoon, and he wasn’t at supper.”

“Yes. He was there.” Best not to lie, I think. “I saw him at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Did you.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And where is Professor Snape now, pray?”

“I don’t know, Professor.”

She doesn’t look as though she quite believes me. With a twinge of anger, I wonder how many members of the staff Dumbledore has shared his suspicions with. Or, I wonder with a sudden sinking feeling, has it just been that obvious…?

I am just thinking I might finally be able to slip away when the doors to my right creak open and you stumble through. You have your head in your hand, and you are pinching at the bridge of your nose as though fighting a headache. You look up then and turn as pale as a ghost at the sight of McGonagall and me standing there, side by side, observing you.

“Professor McGonagall was just asking after you, sir,” I offer, praying that you will just play along. Fortunately, you choose that moment to lean up against the wall and lose what meager contents your stomach contained.

“Severus!” McGonagall sounds scandalized. “Severus Snape, are you drunk?!”

You have your forehead pressed against the cold stone wall beside you, and I see your fingers knotting into a tight fist again. “Obviously,” you manage.

McGonagall’s eyes snap to me, no doubt mortified that I might be exposed to such a display. I just smile at her weakly. “He did appear to be making rather merry. You know, Christmas hols and all that…”

“Oh… oh, for Merlin’s sake!” She bustles over and starts herding you toward the stairs. “To the hospital wing with you Severus. Now!” Turning to me, she scowls, and waves down the corridor. “Miss Braithwaite, off to your common room, if you please. I think you’ve seen quite enough. I… I hope I can trust you to be discreet about this…”

“Of course.” My tone is a little short, and I see her frown at it. She is suddenly irritating me, and I’m not sure why.

She might have been rid of me, too, if you hadn’t chosen that moment to sway precariously behind her. “Catch him,” I say.

“What?”

“Catch him. Catch him!” I cry, rushing forward. You go down before I can get there, but you fall against her and slide down the length of her skirt before landing face down on the floor.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” she states again and stares down at you like a mother might at a particularly troublesome child. Shaking her head, she pulls out her wand, and you float slowly into the air in front of her. “Back to your common room, Miss Braithwaite. I won’t ask you again.”

I look at you floating face down, your hair falling in dark strands to cover your pale face. I want to go with you, but I know it’s futile. I do as she says.

When I get back to my room, I am glad the rest of my dorm mates have gone home for the holiday. I am completely alone. I sit down on the edge of the bed, and lift my hand slowly to my lips. They feel swollen. I stand up and walk to the mirror across the room. My curls are sticking out wildly in every direction, my lips red and full, and my cheeks and chin are rubbed ruddy and raw from the friction of your unshaven face.

I laugh weakly. I look as though I’ve been debauched. No wonder McGonagall was so scandalized. Pulling the last of the pins from my hair, I let it fall down about my shoulders, and pick up a brush, starting to work it through. It will turn into a riotous mess, but I have to wash it anyway, and I desperately want something to do. I need to think.

I shouldn’t have let you do that. I should have stopped you straight off, but I… Merlin help me, I didn’t want to…

Burying my face in my hands, I cry.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I am determined to talk to you today. It has been three days since… since it happened, and I haven’t seen you in all that time. You have not come to meals, but there is nothing out of the ordinary in that. There are so few of us at the school now that we all gather at one table to eat. That’s rather too close a fellowship even for me; I am almost certain that you would find it unbearable.

After lunch, a lunch which McGonagall spent casting me looks both dark and concerned, I go in search of you. Neither Professor Dumbledore nor McGonagall has said a thing about Hogsmeade, and so I am hoping that perhaps she has chosen not to tell him at all. I know she has her suspicions, though, and if she does, being a Gryffindor, I hardly think she could restrain herself.

You aren’t in the library or by the lake. You aren’t in the Great Hall or the Potions classroom or your office. Unless you have left the grounds and gone into Hogsmeade again, that leaves only your rooms. Even I know I shouldn’t look for you there, but I am desperate to talk to you. I knock once and wait.

The door swings open much quicker than I thought it would, and I come face to face with Professor Dumbledore. “Ah, Miss Braithwaite. Perfect timing. Do come in.” He steps back and I see McGonagall sitting straight and stiff in a wing chair by the fire. You are on the sofa, shoulders hunched, face in your hands. I can feel the shame and self-loathing coming off of you in waves. They have done this. They have made you feel this way, and I hate them for it.

I move quickly, before they can stop me, and I sit down beside you, back as straight and tall as McGonagall’s. I feel you twitch when my leg touches yours, but you don’t pull away. Now that I am so close, your pain is almost impossible to bear.

“I assume you know what this is about, Gwendolyn,” the headmaster begins.

“No.” I have no intention of giving them anything. I will let them lay the cards out on the table and then I will decide.

“Professor Snape has told us everything, my dear.” There is something that sounds almost like pity in McGonagall’s voice.

“Everything?”

“Don’t,” you mumble between your fingers beside me.

I look down at your bowed head, and fight the urge to reach out and touch it. I take a deep breath, and look around me at the headmaster, at McGonagall. “He was drunk.” I state plainly, looking Professor Dumbledore straight in the eye. “He didn’t know what he was doing, and… and I was sober. I had a choice to stop him immediately, and I didn’t. I should have done… but I didn’t.”

McGonagall balls up a handful of her skirt in her hand. “You are a student, Gwendolyn, and he is a teacher. He is the adult here, and you should not have to…”

“We are both adults, Professor. I have been an adult for almost a year now, and in two months more I will be eighteen. It is not as though I am a third-year.”

“That is not the point!” she bristles, but Dumbledore holds up a hand and she grows silent.

“Your concern for our students is, as always, admirable, Minerva, but Miss Braithwaite has a valid point. That being…” I take a deep breath of relief, and McGonagall opens her mouth as though to protest. He cuts across her. “That being said, Minerva…” He sounds weary, and even a tad irritated. “Things obviously can not continue on as they have been.”

I wait patiently, silently, calmly to hear our fate. I want to touch you – want so badly to touch you, but of course I don’t.

“I think it would be best, Gwendolyn,” the headmaster begins, “if you drop Potions for the rest of the year.”

I’ll not allow that. “No. That’s impossible. My goal is to be a Healer. Both of my parents are… they are doctors. It is their wish as well. They will not permit it. I need the experience. I need the marks in that class if I am to secure an adequate apprenticeship.”

He looks a little taken aback, but only for the briefest of moments. “Well, then, Miss Braithwaite, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest, sir, that you trust me when I say that this won’t happen again.”

His blue eyes search mine. I feel as though I am being pierced to my very core, but I steel myself. You have lifted your head from your hands beside me now, and I can see you looking at him.

“Enough,” you finally growl. Your voice is hoarse, and weary. You sound as though you have aged centuries since the last time I saw you. “You have my word, Albus, my word that it won’t happen again.”

I feel something in the energy around me snap like the breaking of a rubber band. His eyes travel to yours. I feel cold, and suddenly very alone, and then I realize why: I can’t feel you anymore.

The headmaster nods. “Very well.”

“Albus!” McGonagall sounds mortified.

He ignores her, and instead turns to me. “You will be required to report to Professor Burke nightly at curfew for the duration of next term. I’m sure you understand.”

I nod, but I am seething at the indignity of it.

“There’s no need,” you state. I can’t read your tone, and with the connection between us severed I have no idea what you are thinking or feeling.

“Nevertheless, Severus, my decision stands.”

I look over at you. You are staring back at him, your eyes black and dead, completely unreadable. It seems to me that there is something unspoken passing between you and he, but it is conversation to which I am not privy.

“May I go, sir?”

The headmaster looks away from you, and nods. “Yes, Gwendolyn. Thank you for your honesty and cooperation. I will see you at Christmas dinner tomorrow, in the Great Hall, I hope.” It isn’t a request.

“Of course, sir.”

“And you as well, Severus.” He looks you over, his brows furrowing a little as though really noticing for the first time what I have been trying to tell him since autumn. “You look rather as though you could use a decent meal.”

You glare back daggers and I have to fight a smile as I turn, leaving the three of you behind me.

We are expected to dress for dinner, I suppose. I straighten my hair, and wear a green silk dress that brings out the green in my eyes. You will be there. As I’m walking out the door I suddenly realize that perhaps it was cruel of me to put my best face forward, given all that has just transpired. But I’m selfish, I know it, and I just can’t bring myself to undo all the work I have just put in, can’t squelch the deep-seated hope that I will see you look at me like that one more time.

Professor Dumbledore is already there, at the head of the table when I arrive. We will all sit together, just as we have been throughout the holiday. Professor McGonagall is there too, as well as two Gryffindor first-years, a Hufflepuff fourth-year, and Andrew Stavish, a Ravenclaw seventh-year. You are markedly absent.

I am glad that I dressed well. The headmaster looks as though he has broken out his very best, and that is saying something. His robes are lavender velvet shot through with silver. He smiles at me when I sit down at the spot with my name beside the plate. I am at his left hand. There is a spot for you at his right. I hope desperately that you come.

The meal begins and still you are absent. Dumbledore makes no mention of it, just reaches across your spot at the table and hands McGonagall the other end of his Christmas cracker. Mine produces some sherbet lemons which I tuck away for later, and an ostentatious mess of a hat, which I discreetly tuck under my seat. The fortune looks promising, though:

“Someone you know will reveal the unexpected.”

We have only just tucked into our food when you appear in the doorway. Professor Trelawney has her arm linked with yours, and you are looking rather put out. She seems to stumble a little and I see your grip on her arm tighten momentarily. Well, she would be drunk by this time of the evening. I am surprised she has come at all.

You’ve shaved, and you’ve pulled your hair back. I’ve never seen it that way before, and I suddenly realize how intoxicating the curve of your jaw is.

Dumbledore stands up beside me, as you approach. “Sybill, Severus. I’m so glad you could join us.” He motions to the seat beside him. “Severus, here. Sybill, just there beside Minerva, if you will.”

I’m not sure if McGonagall is more upset that he has seated Trelawney to her right, or that you are sitting across from me. She looks livid.

“Good evening, Professor,” I say. You haven’t looked at me yet. In fact, you have been doing everything in your power to avoid looking at me.

Your eyes lift briefly to mine, and I smile. You seem to lose some color, and you look away again quickly. “Miss Braithwaite.” It is terse, without a trace of warmth.

I can feel Dumbledore watching us. I concentrate on my food, and then decide to engage him in some conversation. “Is it true, sir, that Professor Bartlett won’t be returning next term for Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

It draws his attention away from you, and for that I am grateful. I keep him engaged as long as I can, but by the time the pudding arrives I’ve run out of things to say. I eat in silence.

He insists on carols afterward. He and the younger ones seem to enjoy it the most. I sing soft and low, and you simply sit, arms crossed over your chest, and stare across the room at one of the enormous Christmas trees decorating the front of the hall.

When we all get up to leave at last, he calls you back, something about needing to discuss a matter of some importance. I know what it is about. He is ensuring that we don’t walk back to the dungeons together. Burke went home for the holiday and it is just the two of us down there. The sudden realization of this (I’ve no idea why I’d not thought of it before) sends a rush of pleasure singing through my veins. I fight it.

I sit up half the night in the common room. I light a candle and nothing else. The room feels vast and dark and lonely. It’s ice-cold.

I fear the warmth of my bed. I fear what dreams and images my fevered brain might conjure. I fear what I might do once I find myself there. I am terrified of the raging fire your kisses seem to have lit inside me.

I have replayed that one moment over and over again in my mind, and every time I do the ache grows stronger. Before that night I had always dreamed of kissing you; now it isn’t enough. Now that fire that burns in the center of me spreads and torments me until I’ve no choice but to slip my fingers beneath my skirt and ease the pain. It is your name I cry when the pleasure explodes inside of me.

Afterward, I blow out the candle and lay alone in the dark, weeping.

Classes start again. Burke is watching me like a hawk, and Will is just as big a prat as he ever was. I will no doubt fail Potions at the rate he is blowing things up. He might not care if he fails, but I sure as bloody hell do.

I corner him outside of class the second week. He leans against the wall, with that devil-may-care attitude of his, a crooked smile on his face. His tie is askew and his top button is undone. I berate myself for noticing it.

“What is your problem, Spencer?!” I demand. “You may not give a toss about Potions, but I do!”

“Relax, Gwen.”

“Don’t call me that!” I spit.

He just smiles and runs a hand through his hair, setting it artfully askew. That may work with the girls in his house, but it certainly won’t… I catch myself. Is… is he flirting with me? I feel a little ill.

“Just stop being a total and utter prat!” I snap.

You emerge from the class just then, balancing an armload of scrolls. You pause for the briefest of moments, take in the sight of us, and then you brush past without a word.

For the first time in weeks I feel you.

It’s strong and agonizing, and yet I am almost certain I must be mistaken in my interpretation of it.

In February, Will starts a concerted campaign to win me. I remind him that I am a Slytherin and that he is a Gryffindor, and he must be a brainless one at that if he thinks I will consider his suggestion for even so much as a breath’s length.

He always just smiles that infuriatingly crooked smile of his, runs a hand through his unruly hair, and says. “Alright, Gwen. But you know I’ll just try again tomorrow.”

You are as cold and distant as ever, but there are times, times when your nearness is unavoidable, and I feel you as I did in the corridor so many weeks ago. You feel wound tight. You feel close to breaking wide open, and I can’t help but hope that I will be there when you do.

The day is fine, too fine to be in the library. Will has remarked on this fact five times, at least, in the last hour. He is sitting on top of the table in front of me, shirt untucked, school tie askew. Somehow I’ve been too obvious on that front. He’s noticed it makes me look, and now he does it all the time. He is staring longingly out the window toward the Quidditch pitch.

“Can’t we do this later, Gwen?” he whines.

“No. The essay is due tomorrow, and I’ve put it off due to your bloody Quidditch practices for running on two weeks now.”

He gets up and wanders into the stacks. When he comes back he is holding a yearbook in his hand. I am truly getting irritated now.

“I fail to see how that is going to help us with our Potions essay.”

He just smiles and flops down beside me. His arm brushes against mine. He smells good. I don’t pull away with a scowl as I usually do.

“It’s ’77-’78. That was your third year, wasn’t it? I don’t seem to remember what you looked like then. Let’s see…”

I try to grab it out of his hand. “Don’t you dare! Give me that!”

He snatches it up, and holds it just out of reach. Madame Pince comes around the corner and glares at us. He smiles innocently at her, and I see her eyes soften and the corners of her mouth twitch before she turns away.

“Kiss me, and I’ll give it to you,” he suddenly blurts. I’m shocked. He’s never said anything so bold before. He looks shocked himself.

I look at his full pink lips, and I can physically recall the heat of your kiss, the intoxicating force of it, for the first time in months. “You’re disgusting,” I say.

Something almost like hurt flickers across his eyes for just a moment, but he recovers quickly, the patented cocky smile back almost before I can even be sure I ever really saw the hurt. “That’s what I thought.” He winks, and then plops the book back down on the table and opens it. He leafs through until he finds my picture. My hair is sticking out like a Brillo pad, and my school tie is askew.

He laughs, and I glare. “That’s right. I’d almost forgotten your hair was curly.”

I’ve been straightening it since Christmas. “So what if it is?” I challenge.

“Nothing, nothing.” He looks away quickly, and I think I see a slight flush rise to his cheeks.

He starts flipping randomly through the pages. Year after year of Slytherins flash past. He stops suddenly at the seventh year, and I can see the sheer delight sparkling in his eyes. “Merlin’s pants – will you look at that!” I follow his finger, and swallow hard to see your eighteen-year-old self staring up at me. Your eyes are dark and filled with hate. I almost don’t recognize you at first. You look strong, determined, ready for a fight. My heart catches in my chest. I suddenly feel dizzy, and don’t know why.

“Oh, this is just too much.” He gazes around us, and when he sees no one, starts to tear out the page.

I reach out and grab his hand. “Stop. What are you doing?”

He looks down at my hand on his and I snatch it away.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You can’t do that. It’s… it’s defacing school property.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You know, for a Slytherin you’re an awful prude.”

“Shut up, Spencer.”

He smiles. “Fine, I’ll just go find one of my fellow Gryffindors to deface.”

He flips to the section with his own house, and snickers at the pictures of the other students in his year. I feel let down when I see his picture. He looks almost the same. He was one of those children with irritatingly well-proportioned features, the sort that grow into them easily and comfortably.

I get bored after a while and go back to the essay.

“Wow. Look at this,” he says in a hushed tone after a few minutes have passed.

I look down at where he is pointing.

“That’s the Potters…” he whispers. “You know – the Potters.”

I nod, but say nothing. The girl looking up at me smiles and waves. She has a soft and pretty look about her. She looks like the sort of girl who had probably been very popular. Sure enough, I see that she was Head Girl. James Potter was Head Boy. It was so long ago now, I’d forgotten.

Will points at her. “She… she sort of looks like you.”

The nausea in my stomach intensifies. “She’s prettier than I am,” I state. Will wisely says nothing.

“James Potter,” he adds running his hand through his hair until it sticks up just as wildly as the boy in the picture. “Now there was a Quidditch player. They still talk about him. Remember that game against Ravenclaw in second year when…”

“I have to go.” I stand up so fast the chair nearly tips over behind me. Will reaches out and catches it.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I just shake my head. “Finish the essay, will you?” I start to walk away, but then think twice; I go back, reach across him, and tear out the page with the Potters on it, stuffing it in my pocket.

“Hey,” he calls as I hurry away. “What happened to not defacing school property?”

I ignore him.

You are alone in your office when I throw open the door without knocking and slam it again behind me. I fish the picture out of my pocket and slam it down on the desk in front of you.

You look down at it and I feel the change in the air, in you, but when you look up there is no hint of it in your eyes or your voice. “Is there something you need, Miss Braithwaite?”

“Stop calling me that. It’s absurd,” I snap.

“Gwendolyn, then. Is there something I can help you with?”

I point down at the paper, my eyes never leaving yours. You don’t even look down. “What?” I think I hear a defensiveness in your tone now, but I can’t be sure.

“Her!” I shout. “Evans… Potter… Lily Potter!”

“Very astute of you, Gwendolyn. Yes, it is Lily Potter.”

I can feel tears coming to my eyes. You’ve been like this with me since it happened and it’s driving me mad; now this. “I… I thought…”

“You thought what?!” you suddenly bark.

“I thought you... I thought you wanted me for me, but… it was always only this!” I pick the paper up and shove it in his face. “It was her! Her! I remember how you used to look at her, and then after the murders, you were… And even now…”

You say nothing and I can feel something wild and ungovernable rising up inside me. “I… I HATE YOU!” I scream. I don’t cry. There’s too much hurt for tears.

For the briefest of seconds you look as though I have slapped you, but then you sit up a little straighter in your chair and lean forward. “Good.”

I swallow hard. “What?”

“Good. You should hate me.” Your face is hard, but your shoulders are starting to droop. “You could have had me fired, Miss Braithwaite. You should have had me fired.”

I just stare at you. I am stunned. I stare into your black eyes, until I feel something in you shift. You squirm a little in your seat and then look away, back down at your desk. You fold up the picture of the Potters and slip it into your desk drawer. “Does Professor Burke know you are here?”

“No one knows I am here,” I murmur.

I see your quill pause for a moment above the scroll you have just unrolled. You set it down slowly. “You think you know what you want, Gwendolyn, but you don’t.” You finally look up. “In a few months – a year maybe – you’ll realize how wrong this was. You’ll realize that what you want is only the result of what I…” Your voice cuts out in a kind of soft gasp, as though you have suddenly run out of oxygen. You rub your hand over your eyes and pinch at the bridge of your nose before looking back up at me. “The result of what I have done to you...”

I feel frozen to the spot by the intensity of your gaze. “Now, I want you to listen to me, and then I want you to go away and think hard about what I’ve said. What happened in the winter – it was a selfish indulgence on my part. I was… I… I was come undone. Do you understand? Can you understand that?”

I nod because I don’t know what else to do.

“That day at the lake... do you remember it? A couple days after the…”

“Yes,” I manage.

You nod. “Did you know I was going to end it? Just then, when you walked up.”

“Yes,” I say again.

You blink. It wasn’t the answer you had been anticipating, and it’s thrown you.

“It’s why I stayed. Why I talked to you so long,” I continue. “I didn’t think you should be left alone.”

“Yes, well, I…” You are totally lost now.

“You… you looked as though you needed someone…”

Your mouth is still slightly open as though you expect your brain to rescue you at any moment, to spew forth an assortment of random words that will somehow coalesce into some semblance of meaning. But your mind fails you; it always does when you start to need.

“You… you do need someone, Sever…”

“Don’t.” Your head has dropped to your hand. Your voice is tight and hollow.

“Why?”

Your head stays cradled in your hand, fingers blocking out the light. “You’re barely eighteen.” You sound as though you believe yourself the epitome of depravity.

“And you are barely twenty-two.”

You look up at me then. Put so plainly it makes things seem not so bad – at least to my ears. But I know you. You are determined to condemn yourself. Your eyes look surprisingly conflicted. “I can’t, Gwendolyn. You must know that. I… I just can’t…”

I nod toward the drawer into which you have stuffed the picture of Lily Potter. “Because of her.”

You wince a little as though I have just cut you deep. “Because I am your teacher.” You sound as though you are trying to convince yourself as well as me.

I nod. “Because of her,” I insist in a whisper.

“Have it your way.” Your face is back in your hands now. I burn and ache. I long to touch you. Just a few steps and I could be there, pressed up against the edge of your desk, close enough to reach down and run a hand gently over your head. I stay where I am.

“I think I’m in love with you,” I confess.

I see every muscle in your body tense. You shake your head slowly in your hands. “You… you’ve no idea what… what I am…” is all you say. You sound like you are drowning. You sound as though you might find it a relief if you did.

“Then tell me.”

There is a long, drawn out moment of silence, and then: “I can’t.” There’s something in your tone…

“I know.”

“Then… leave me alone. Just… just leave me alone…”

And so I do.

I do leave you alone, but to my surprise I begin to feel you more and more. I know that it would not be happening unless you were permitting it. The end of the school year is drawing closer, and with it the ever present realization that come that last school day in June, I may very well never set eyes on you again.

My dreams are fraught with images of you, your dark eyes piercing me to the core with a pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. It seems you don’t delineate between the two.

I remember one morning last winter. We had come in early for Potions, Will and I both. I told him he owed it to me after the travesty that was our last assignment. You were there already, and we entered quietly, me because I like the early morning silence, and Will because he was still nearly asleep.

You didn’t see us at first. You were gazing out the window at the rising sun, pink and gold over the newly fallen snow. It was breathtaking. I had expected to feel joy or pleasure or awe from you. Instead, in that brief moment before you noticed us, I felt pain. The almost unearthly beauty of the dawn had caused you pain. Oh, it was not a pain without its pleasures. There was a bitter sweetness to it, but it was pain nonetheless. And I realized then, in that moment, that I could not remember a time where I had not felt that from you – pleasure always laced with pain. I could not – except once.

When you had kissed me on the road from Hogsmeade, there had not been time for the pain to sneak up behind you, and wrap its seductive arms around your heart. There had only been heat and hunger and need. In that one moment you had allowed yourself to take, to drink deep, without a moment’s pause, without thought.

And so it is clear to me now what I must do.

Your life will always be pain. It is the way your mind colors your world. There will come a time when you are old and grey when you will look back on your life, and you will see that the sum and total of your truly joyful moments can barely fill the smallest of Pensieves.

From this moment forward, there is nothing that I want anymore, nothing but this one thing. If I can manage it, if I can somehow bring you to that place, then I can leave this place in peace. I can leave without the need to look back.

Will wants to stay in touch, he says. I give him my parents’ address for the summer. I tell him to owl if he likes. I’ll be apprenticing at St. Mungo’s come autumn. I received their owl just last week.

There is a sort of sick satisfaction in it, in the fact that I have secured an opportunity far better than more than half my housemates. Oh, of course the wealthier pure-blood girls just sneer at my ambitions as worthless and common, but I will be changing the world, researching cures and countercurses for some of the wizarding world’s most virulent and unyielding maladies, when they are doing nothing more than attempting to keep their beauty while providing their rich husbands an heir. It is enough.

The last week of term has been madness. Exams and packing and good-byes. There are fewer absconded belongings to have to hunt down this year. With Voldemort’s downfall some of the pure-blood mania seems to have died down, and instead of being something convenient to torment, I have merely became a bore, something beneath their notice. Truth be told, they have been beneath mine this year as well. I’ve had eyes and ears and heart for only one…

The train leaves in a few hours. I’ve said all my good-byes, to the places as well as the people, and now, as I stand here looking about me at the emptied out dorm room around me, the last vestiges of my youth tucked away in boxes, suitcases and trunks, I know that this is the end. I am a student no more, and there is only one more good-bye to be said.

No one notices me leave the common room. No one sees me walk up the corridor to your rooms, eyes focused on that door, heart and mind set. I am almost there when you suddenly emerge. You start a little and open your mouth to say something, but I brush past you, reach out and take your hand, pull you along in my wake until we are back in your rooms and the door is shut behind us, warded and sealed. Then I turn to you.

“I’m leaving in a few hours.” I say.

“Yes, I know.” You keep looking at the door. Are you wondering why I warded it, or are you contemplating a route of escape? I don’t care anymore.

“I wanted to say good-bye. We may not see one another again.”

“No.”

You have not commented that I should not be here with you like this – alone, door warded. It gives me courage – and hope. Your arms hang limp at your sides, but you are worrying the edge of the overly long cuff of your shirt between your thumb and forefinger. You see me looking and stop.

“Good-bye then, Gwendolyn. Good luck with your apprenticeship; I know that…”

“Shhh…” I take a step toward you. Your professional façade drops and you look momentarily terrified. “I’m not here to talk about that, Severus. I’m here to say good-bye.”

“Don’t.” You step back but there is a table behind you. For a brief moment you look hunted, and I almost lose courage, but I take the one final step to breach the space between us, and then I reach out and take your face gently in my hands.

I expect you to pull away, but you don’t. You stop breathing. Your brow furrows in something that looks like confusion, and then, slowly, your eyes slide shut. I can see your pulse thrumming a million miles a minute in the cup of your throat. Standing on my tiptoes, I gently pull your head down, until my lips press against your forehead. I leave them there, for what seems like an eternity, let the sweetness, the artless simplicity of that one act of love and acceptance flow into you, and then I pull back, just a little to whisper against your skin.

“Thank you, Severus.” I let my thumb trace a tender line from your brow to your temple. “For everything.”

And then I feel it. I feel the thing that I have been waiting months for. I feel you break wide open. For one brief moment your heart glows warm and bright and beautiful. I feel the dampness of one tear, and then another, as they escape from the corners of your eyes to run down over my hands. Only two, and then I feel you pull back inside yourself. Your eyes open, and you pull away, stand up straight. I let my hands fall away.

I hope you don’t say anything now. I hope that you will just let me leave.

Your eyes are searching mine; for what, I do not know. But I see the moment you seem to come to some sort of decision. You step forward, take my face in your hands, just as I had held yours a moment before, and lean in, pressing your lips softly, tenderly to mine. It is the antithesis of the kiss we had shared oh so many months before.

The warmth of it fills me up, and I realize suddenly that this is your way of expressing your own gratitude, of apologizing for all you think you have put me through. When you pull away at last, a little of the softness has returned to your eyes.

I smile softly. “Good-bye, Professor,” I whisper.

“Good-bye, Miss Braithwaite.”

It is enough.