And So It Begins...

She almost lost her nerve halfway to the dungeons – almost. I don't even know the man! she thought to herself. I don't even know him, and yet I'm about to knock on his door on a Friday night, a bottle of liquor in my hand, and try to make friends?

She shook her head as her steps slowed. I'm making a mistake... a huge mistake. She swung the bottle nervously in her left hand, the liquid inside making a soft sloshing noise in the silent hall.

He'll hate me even more if I just come barging in, uninvited. She started to turn around, but stopped as a devious thought crossed her mind. But... what if Minerva had asked me to check on him? Make sure things were alright after his abrupt departure from the feast? She tapped the bottle thoughtfully against her thigh, running her tongue over the bottoms of her top teeth, as was her habit when she was thinking. My quarters are closer to his than any of the other teachers. It makes sense that Minerva would ask me to check on him... sort of.

She huffed, now tapping her other hand against the adjoining thigh, in rhythm with the bottle. "Fuck it," she stated with resolved finality.

She started walking, faster this time, lest she lose her nerve again. The soft heels of her boots made a soft 'thup' as she continued down the winding hallway. Coming at last to the staircase leading down to the dungeons – and Snape's rooms – she paused.

There were no torches.

It was dark – completely, utterly, dark. Narrowing her eyes and huffing at the inconvenience, she pulled her wand from her pocket and silently illuminated the tip. Moving slowly – A broken leg is the last thing I need – she descended the narrow, spiraling staircase.

She didn't think it possible, but the air grew even colder as she descended further into the depths of the castle. "No wonder he's so pissed off all the time," she said to herself. "I'd be moody if I had to live in an icebox, as well."

After spiraling down for ages, she made it to the bottom of the stairs, sans broken limbs. Pausing for a moment, she leaned against the cool stone wall to catch her breath before continuing down the long – and once again torchless – corridor that marked the actual entrance to the dungeons. She passed what she knew to be the Potions classroom and walked another fifty or so feet before turning a corner to the left.

She paused. In the utter darkness of the passage, she could see that there was a light near the end of the connecting corridor. As it was coming from the only door she could see, she figured this must be the place. Curious, she started forward again, taking no notice of anything but the sliver of light spilling into the hall.

So, it was to her great surprise that a cold hand suddenly gripped her by the throat, its owner forcing her up roughly against the cold stone wall. When she felt the hard press of a wand underneath her jaw, she reacted instinctively. The stinging hex she fired at the barely discernable body in front of her was enough to release the vice grip at her throat. As the figure fell back, clutching a wounded wrist, she heard his voice yelp in pain.

Oops... she thought, mentally cringing.

In the light from her wand, she could see him clutching his injured limb to his chest as he straightened. His face contorted in anger when he saw her. "You!?" He closed the distance between them. "You... fucking harpy!" he snarled, pointing viciously at her with his uninjured hand.

Okay, now she didn't feel bad about hexing him. "Harpy!? You attacked me, you raving lunatic!" She accented the last word with a jab of her wand in his direction. He flinched. "Oh please," she said, sarcasm lacing her voice, "do you really think I'd hex you again?"

He raised that infuriating eyebrow at her, giving her a wide berth as he circled slowly back towards the doorway, which had become a lot closer during their brief exchange. He shook out his injured wrist as he put himself between her and what he knew to be her destination.

She kept her hand tight around her wand, lest he get any more notions to manhandle her.

"It wouldn't be the first time," he countered, eyes fixed on the glowing tip of that wand. This close to his door, there was enough light spilling into the corridor that she could get a good look at him. He looked...

He looks like shit, she thought pointedly.

His normally starched and pressed white shirt was un-tucked and unbuttoned, with the occasional wet stain dotting the front. Into his cups, already, I see. He was also barefoot. His long, pale feet stood out against the dark stone of the corridor and dark fabric of his trousers – trousers that rode low on his lean hips, the top button lying open.

Oh my... her traitorous mind whispered. Stop staring, you shameless twit!! she screamed at herself, removing her eyes from the line of dark hair that she had spied peeking above the waistband of his trousers. I wasn't staring... her inner voice replied unconvincingly.

She huffed at herself as she continued her appraisal: his hair was disheveled and fell about his face, obscuring most of it. His sleeves had been rolled back to his elbows, and... and... okay, now she knew she was staring.

The Dark Mark.

There it was, imprinted into the flesh on the inside of his left forearm. It was not black, but faded, almost gray, and it did not writhe, alive with dark magic, as she had heard people whisper. She saw his fists clench together, especially the one grasping his wand, but was so transfixed that she never noticed his dark eyes move over her, before pausing on the bottle in her left hand.

After a heartbeat more of silence, he slowly and deliberately placed his left arm behind his back, effectively blocking the tattoo from her vision. Cold eyes turned back to meet hers. "Goodnight, Miss Benoit," he said, turning away dismissively.

"Now hold on just one God-damned minute!" she exclaimed. "You're not going to leave me standing out here after you nearly throttled me to death!"

He paused, his body turned halfway towards his door. "Am I not?" he asked, turning his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye. "I did not invite you down here, Miss Benoit. I do not want – or need – your company. Or anything else..." he raked her with his eyes again, "you may wish to provide. Good night!" He turned back to his doorway again.

She narrowed her blue eyes at his back. When in Rome...

She sighed dramatically. "S'alright, Snape. They told me I was a fool for coming down here anyway." He paused, his hand on the doorjamb.

"Let me think... what were the exact words they used?" She tapped her lips with an index finger, a pensive expression on her face. "Ah, yes," she said finally, gesturing at him with that same finger, "'Snape is too much of a coward to invite any woman into his rooms... especially one that he won't be able to Obliviate.'"

Again with the fist clenching.

She waited. Come on... you know you want to, she thought. Finally he turned back to face her, leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his exposed chest.

"And what makes you think, Miss Benoit, that I would be... unable... to Obliviate you if I so chose?" His voice had a dark, sinister edge to it, and she could see his fingers twitching around his wand. She wasn't buying it.

"Oh, I don't know," she shrugged, walking slowly towards him, a slight womanly sway in her step. "I suppose it could just be my unwavering faith in the rumors of your uncommonly good manners and sense of fair play."

A sarcastic smirk.

She tilted her head to one side, looking thoughtful once more. "Perhaps it's your friendly, welcoming nature that I find so hard to resist?"

A bark of laughter from the doorway.

She smiled ruefully before continuing – slowly. "Or... perhaps it's the fact that I'm hardly scared of a thoroughly sloshed wizard..." he opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off, "... who has yet to realize, despite his... keen... intellect and sharp reflexes, that I've got my wand trained on his bits."

The smirk vanished as his eyes shot downwards. She did indeed have the tip of her wand aimed straight at his most tender parts. He opened his mouth again. "You treacherous bit..." but shut it just as quickly as a shower of blue sparks sprayed from the end of the dark, ebony wood. He jumped back reflexively, giving her the room she needed to quickly move past him into his sitting room.

Severus was so involved in frantically slapping at the front of his trousers that he didn't notice her take one look around the room and shrug before inviting herself to sit – in his spot no less – on the sofa. "Bit cold down here, don't you think?" she asked, setting her bottle on the table next to an identical, empty one.

"I think," he growled, "that you should get the hell out of my rooms," he looked up, and his face grew even more angry, "and my seat... before I hex you out."

She turned around on the sofa, draped one arm over the back and looked at him as he stood there fuming – literally. "Really, Professor? You would hex an innocent woman?"

He snorted, swatting irritably at the last wisp of smoke that drifted from his nether regions.

She continued. "I only came down here on the Headmistress's orders, thank you very much, to make sure you hadn't drunk yourself to death." A mask of innocence covered her face. She didn't think he would believe her little white lie. Truthfully, she didn't really care, but it was worth a shot.

"Innocent..." he muttered, taking one last swipe at his trouser front before moving around to stand in front of the fire.

"Yes," he continued, absently removing the ash-tipped iron poker from its stand in order to stoke the flames. "I'm sure you're just as innocent as the droves of other pathetic witches who strive for my company. What is it this time?"

Poke.

"My good looks?"

Poke, poke.

"My charming personality?"

Poke.

"My bank account?"

POKE!!

When she did nothing but cross her arms and look at him like he was some first year complaining about how much homework had been given, his scowling countenance fell slightly.

With a huff of irritation, he tossed the poker back into its stand. Waving his hand to shut the still open door, he stormed forward, grabbing the bottle she had set on his table. Not even bothering with a glass, he popped the top off, tossed the useless thing into the fire, and took a long drink.

"Ugh!" Cara shouted, as she shot from the couch and snatched the bottle from his lips. "Get a glass, you disgusting wretch!"

Snape nearly choked to death as he snorted tequila into his nasal passages.

His eyes welled up with tears, and his entire nasal cavity was set on fire. He braced his hands on his knees and bent double, gasping for breath, hacking and sputtering. She didn't even blink an eye in his direction, but set off in search of two glasses. Where the hell... ah!

Seeing the open liquor cabinet on the far wall, she made quick work of finding two – unbroken – shot glasses.

Walking back towards the fire, where Snape was still coughing and hacking, she wiggled the little glasses at him. They clinked together musically, clasped as they were between her index and middle finger. "Care to try it the right way?" she asked.

By this time he was squatting, his head clasped in his hands. She thought he might fall over. All she had to do was give him a bit of a nudge with the toe of her boot... Stop that! The poor man's drunk. Besides, they'll be time enough later to torment him. She smirked.

Finally, he found the fortitude to look up at her. His face was flushed red, and his teeth were clenched together as he spoke slowly. "Don't... ever... do that... again!" He coughed once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What? And allow you to infest my last bottle with your man germs? I have no idea where your lips have been..." she said, earning her another sarcastic eyebrow, "nor do I care. Besides, it's much more fun this way." She raised the hand holding the two glasses before reclaiming her seat on the sofa. She plunked the glasses down on the table.

"Come on, Professor, let's see if you can hold your own against a silly little witch like me."

He just stared at her. "Of course, if you're too chicken, I'll just take my bottle and go home." She started to get up, but his voice stopped her.

"I will not be outshone by some... blue-eyed tart."

She gave him her best 'offended' look. "So now I'm a tart? Tut, tut, Professor. I don't believe I have yet to make a play for..." she flapped her fingers in his general direction, "... whatever... it is you keep beneath all that black fabric."

She was utterly surprised when his face flushed.

"Let's do this," she said, ignoring his embarrassment and pouring a generous shot into each glass.

Instead of getting up, he simply sat down where he was and extended his hand with an indignant huff. Cara raised both eyebrows at him, to which he raised one of his. Touché, Professor.

She leaned towards him, drink extended, but when he reached for it she pulled it back, just out of reach. He continued to hold out his hand, looking at her with an expression that told her she was already overwhelmingly lucky not to be on her way out, hexed within an inch of her life, so she had best not push it. A one-sided smirk was all he got in return as she offered the glass once more, letting him take it this time.

She raised her shot out towards him. "Here's to you, and here's to me... the best of friends we'll ever be..." He laughed out loud at that, some of his drink sloshing over onto his hand.

Cara continued, smirking: "But if you and I should disagree..." She indicated him with her glass again, "... Then fuck you buddy, here's to me!"

She tossed back the warm liquor with a grimace, slamming her glass down as she swallowed.

Snape simply sneered back. He narrowed his eyes at her, comtemplating, before tossing back his own drink and slamming the glass down with a force to rival her own.

A sly grin split her face as she poured them each another. And so it begins...

~TBC

A/N: Thanks so much for R&R!