Two: In Which Severus Becomes an Object of Affection

"... and you, Severus, are the ideal candidate to oversee the shaping of the next generation."

Severus had become so adept at tuning out the high voice, which had been boring on for hours in a monotonous sing-song, that he nearly missed that part of the Grand Plan. He'd been mentally humming the guitar solo from "Comfortably Numb" and planning an unpleasant and time-consuming errand for Wormtail so he could have his afternoon tea and crumpets in peace. He snapped back to reality so hard he was surprised nobody heard the twang.

"My Lord?"

"Don't be coy, Severus," Voldemort chided coquettishly. "Unless you think someone else here is better suited to the Headship?"

Severus made a show of tugging thoughtfully on his lower lip while surveying the DE High Command. Looking at his colleagues, he wondered how they'd managed to get this far – such a collection of mental, moral, and emotional castrati would be hard to find outside Broadmoor – but he supposed a willingness to cave in to every base impulse could take a person a long way. Just look at Berlusconi.

"My Lord, you realise that it will be nigh on impossible to work productively with the staff at Hogwarts? After the events of this summer ..."

Voldemort dismissed the matter with a wave of one spindly hand.

"If you don't feel you're up to it, Severus, then I am sure that amongst us there are others who feel themselves more than qualified to take on such a prestigious duty."

The Carrows were fidgeting like pinned puppies.

"My Lord, it is not a question of fitness or ability. I merely wished to point out that the task will be no sinecure for whomever takes it on. McGonagall and the others are formidable opponents, even within the constraints placed upon their actions."

"They will obey the rules, Severus."

Severus felt the uncomfortable twinge in his guts that meant he was about to start saving people again. It was a habit that was proving impossible to break, and usually gave him severe indigestion.

"And my Lord, taking responsibility for Hogwarts will unfortunately demand that I spend much less time at your side." And therein lies its unspeakable charm, added Severus silently, playing a mental game of chicken by looking Voldemort in the eyes while he thought it.

"Needs must, Severus, and I need you ... there."

I win.

He bowed his head regretfully, shooting a triumphant smirk at the Carrows as he did so.

"But I agree, you will not be safe on your own, and I could not bear to lose you." Voldemort laid his clammy fingers on Severus' sleeve. "So I will instruct the Minister to appoint Alecto and Amycus to the staff, just as soon as some positions become, shall we say, available."

Bugger.

"You are too kind, my Lord."

He went home to find Wormtail ensconced in his chair eating his chocolate biscuits. He grabbed the rat by the scruff of its collar and threw it out, telling it to buy Morpheus' Bane and not come back until he had some – a standard way for Potions Masters to lose apprentices for a few hours. There wasn't an apothecary in wizarding Britain who would crack and admit that Snape wanted coffee. He cleaned and disinfected his chair then went through to his immaculate kitchen to make tea. A vintage piece from the rock and roll era, the kitchen was nevertheless a place of beauty and comfort to him. He switched on the kettle, glad of the modifications which allowed it to run in a magical home. Five minutes later, he was nestled amongst his own cushions, sinking his fangs vengefully into an innocent bystander of a crumpet and allowing "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" to help the tea soothe his temper. Every time he thought he could achieve some fraction of wiggle room, just an iota of peace, somebody contrived to ruin it for him. His eyelids drooped, and his last waking thought was, Thank Merlin for butter.

Perhaps that was why he came to himself dreaming of the Kerrygold landscape. It was a nice place, with well-laundered cows and polished daisies. But Severus didn't generally do 'nice'. He became aware of far-away laughter and couldn't help but think it was directed at him. His face adopted the shuttered look he'd spent years perfecting, turning his eyes into black holes that took in everything and gave nothing as he swung round to see who had the temerity to giggle at him in his dreams. A woman was walking towards him, seeming to float on the grass-tips and flower petals. The sun was behind her, so that at first he could make out very little. She was petite, no – tall; slim, no – statuesque; blonde, no – redheaded; pretty, no – breathtakingly beautiful. And she was holding out her hands in his direction and laughing delightedly. He turned round to see who was behind him.

"No, my dear! It is you who fills my heart with joy," the woman cooed.

He grimaced. He might have known she couldn't be perfect. Cooing really got on his wick.

"Very funny," he said. "What precisely about me renders you so ecstatic?"

"Why, you are exactly the person I was looking for!" This time her voice was firm and slightly husky.

He raised an eyebrow in self-defence.

"Another person who wants me to so something for them. Splendid. Even in my dreams I can't escape being useful."

"You misunderstand me, my love." She laughed, a low and throaty chuckle. "I am here for you, and indeed here is here for you, for your enjoyment."

"Then I must be particularly irritated with myself. The leaves on these daisies are inaccurate."

She waved her hand and the daisies corrected themselves.

"An impressive display of wandless magic, madam."

She moved closer and touched a fingertip to the turned-down corner of his mouth, then moved it to tip up his chin so he could look into her eyes. Severus gulped. So tall, so buxom, so vibrant ... this was a veritable Amazon.

"How dare you!" she snapped, her perfect, sapphire eyes blazing. "How dare you compare me to one of those butch, sexless, domineering ..."

"Oh, charming," snarled Severus. He stamped off. "I can't even escape fucking Legilimens in my own fucking fantasies..."

"Your language is uncouth, sir!"

"And what kind of cows don't leave any shit behind them?"

"You are over-precise in your observations! I happen to think it is a pretty landscape. You are ungrateful." Her voice had gone from husky to shrewish, and a glance over his shoulder told him that her arms were folded tightly across her impressive bosom.

"I seem to have worn out my welcome."

And with that he woke, his teacup cooling in his hands, and vowed never to nod off to Pink Floyd again.

*

The second time he dreamed about her was after the Welcoming Feast.

The staff had no choice but to accept him as Headmaster after he was duly appointed by the Ministry, but there wasn't a single creature in the castle that regarded him with any favour, from his Deputy, McGonagall, who refused to address him unless it concerned business (and even then spoke to the air above his left shoulder, as if he were sporting an invisible hearing-ear parrot), to the gargoyle on the stairs, which showed a tendency to forget his passwords and ensured that the ride upwards on the staircase became predictably unpredictable.

Well, actually, there were inhabitants that would speak to him, but he'd rapidly taken to hiding in alcoves to avoid the Carrows and Argus Filch.

Damn – if only he were able to let someone, one single person, know how much of a hero he was being. He'd caught onto Alecto's plans for the Muggle Studies section of the library quickly enough and helped her pack up the books, casting surreptitious charms to ensure their soft landing as she threw them into the crates, all the while with Irma Pince glaring and huffing to keep the tears at bay. He couldn't even tell her why he'd volunteered to be the one to get rid of her precious books. He said it would be appropriate to take them to a Muggle dump, and Alecto cackled lazily and let him get on with it. Oh, he'd made sure he had memories of tipping the heavy crates into a skip, but not before he'd swapped the contents for all the sordid pulp fiction he'd confiscated over the years.

He'd gone blue in the face inventing plausible arguments why Amycus couldn't have Filius' classroom.

He'd ensured that the Carrows had no entry to any House-specific areas save those of Slytherin, despite the fact that traditionally, all teachers were allowed everywhere. And he'd made sure he informed them of this 'unfortunate' state of affairs where the other staff could hear. Then, of course, his own eavesdropping revealed Minerva telling everyone that it must have been Dumbledore's doing before he died.

He'd done some very complicated wand-waving to make a replicate of the great volume that recorded all the students' and potential students' names to reveal only the pure-bloods. The original, with all its vulnerable contents, was under his bed.

And so it went on.

He stared out from his position on the uncomfortable cushion that had been sculpted by years of bearing Dumbledore's bony arse and decided that unsung hero was the worst job in the world. He could – and did, in the privacy of his triple-warded and soundproofed shower – sing it himself,

(Mama, just killed a man.

Now he's dead...),

but there was little comfort to be had from the knowledge that Beelzebub did indeed have a devil put aside for him.

"Pass the bottle," slurred Alecto, who was getting a head start.

His colleagues would barely look at him. What about the students? Their numbers severely depleted, leaving acreages of bare wood except at the Slytherin table, they seemed to have little trouble fixing their eyes on Headmaster Snape. Some of the Hufflepuffs seemed to have grown a backbone, if their stiff upper lips were any indication, though the majority shot him fearful glances; the Ravenclaws were, naturally, curious, dissecting him with speculative eyes; the Slytherins were smiling and fawning; and the Gryffindors, yes, the Gryffindors were glaring, of course. Their collective miff, however, lacked the focus to which he was accustomed. Without Weasley's rabbit-in-headlights gawp, Potter's aggression, and most of all, Granger's cool and intelligent challenge, all that Gryffindor could offer was a lot of teenage pouting. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he could admit that school would be less fun without the enjoyment of parrying Granger's questions and then taking points off for cheek.

He stood, spreading his fingertips on the tabletop. He leaned forward until his nails went white and the tendons stood out on the backs of his hands. Silence fell immediately. No point in explanations, none in justifications, so he'd settle for a warning.

"Be aware that the Ministry has sanctioned a new regime of punishment for contravention of the school rules," he said neutrally. Perhaps those with a few brains would remember the last time the Ministry had taken a hand in the school rules, and that the Headmaster at the time had been active in undermining the policy ... "I advise you very strongly to acquaint yourselves with the rules in every detail, and to remain in your Houses after curfew. Now eat, then go to bed."

He himself ate very little, and went to bed early.

His dream-eyes opened to a view of a sparkling blue sea far below the small temple in which he stood. The temple was perched so precariously on its crag that he was rather glad this was a dream and there would be no messy splatting even if he did overbalance. It wasn't much of a temple – just a circle of columns supporting a dome, but it was peaceful and offered a little shade against the bright sun. He eased himself down to sit with his shoulder resting against a column and his legs dangling over the drop. He noted idly that his feet were bare and that he was wearing some sort of silly tunic thing, mercifully black, which was at least comfortable in the hot breeze that lifted his hair. He closed his eyes and listened to the call of a gull far below and a cicada chirping somewhere nearby, perhaps in the myrtles that clung to the rocks.

"Is this more to your liking?"

The woman was smiling, but there was a slight 'it had damn well better be' look in her sapphire eyes.

"Very nice," said Severus, because it was.

He squinted up at her.

She was as he remembered, tall and shapely, the physique of a Roedean lacrosse captain softened by gauzy drapery that shifted in the wind and never quite revealed enough flesh. Her red hair was loosely bound back by a wreath of white roses that let soft tendrils fall to kiss her brow and neck. She seemed unconcerned by the searing light that fell on her pale skin. He became aware that his shins were crisping in the sun and retreated into his patch of shade, which had – most inconsiderately for a dream – shifted.

"Only 'nice'?" she threatened, plucking a rose from her hair and tossing it to him.

"Very nearly perfect," he said generously.

"Nearly."

"My gran used to say that everything could be improved if you thought about it hard enough."

"Your gran obviously never met me," said the woman. She settled herself gracefully next to him and ran a gentle finger up his forearm, leaning forward so that her wondrous bosom pressed lightly against him.

Severus wasn't used to this sort of thing. He swallowed.

"My gran would also say that you were no better than you ought to be," he squeaked.

The woman frowned, a little pucker gracing her alabaster forehead between the exquisite eyebrows that were just two shades darker than the locks of hair that were now brushing Severus' cheek and trembling lips.

"Your gran clearly didn't know the effect you have on women," she purred, her breath like honey and cinnamon on his mouth.

Severus felt this was a little too unlikely, even for one of his own fantasies.

"Are you feeling quite well, madam?" he enquired. He got to his feet so as to look down his nose at her. That this was a bad move became clear as he realised that the tunic had not come provided with underwear and that she was looking up it at his somewhat enthusiastic member. "Oh, Circe," he groaned.

Not the right thing to say.

"You have me right here, and you call for that pig-loving bitch?" snarled the woman. She jumped to her feet and advanced on him, backing him across the temple until his heel met a column, and he was forced to stop. "You speak that trollop's name when I am before you, ready to offer you all that I am? Consider wisely, o man, what your next utterance should be."

Her magnificent bosom was heaving a mere fraction of an inch from his nose, and her sapphire eyes flashed down at him, and Severus thought he might be in heaven.

And then his Carrow-alarm went off, telling him there was already a Hufflepuff in trouble.

*

Hagrid, surprisingly, cottoned on rather quickly. To be fair, he'd have needed as much hair inside his head as out not to realise that almost every single time Severus gave a detention, he sent the culprits for a truly terrifying ordeal (tea and rock cakes) in the Forbidden Forest. Yet even with this suspicion firmly in place, Severus had to affect not to notice Hagrid's unsubtle wink, and hope that his hint would be taken.

One day, even the Carrows would start to wonder why the students came back looking so healthy.

Severus fretted about alternate punishments. There were only so many disgusting ingredients that needed preparation, and by February the school's Potions stores were in prime condition for the next five years. Writing lines all night made the children look wan and tired, which was good, as well as keeping them out of reach of certain members of staff. Dusting the books in the Restricted Section was quite a good one – it left most people pale and trembling, even with Irma there to fight off the most violent tomes. And through it all, the whole school hated him and fought him.

He took to listening to The Smiths.

His dream-woman didn't much like the sound-track, which he carried with him to her temple one night.

"What is this Hades-hallowed keening?" she pouted. "Begone, foul airs!"

"Do you mind?" Severus straightened and glowered. He had managed to tug his tunic down far enough to tie it together between his legs. It was uncomfortable, and looked ridiculous, but at least it was some protection. "I was listening to that!"

"No you weren't, my sweet. You were wallowing in it." She walked round him, trailing her hand across his chest. He felt goose bumps rise all over his body at her touch.

"It helps me sleep."

"Not that I have noticed," she said tartly when he refused to relax into the bosom pressed against his shoulder blades. "You barely sleep at all, my hero." Gripping his upper arms, she pressed herself against him and lowered her lips to whisper in his ear. "Let me help you relax ..."

He jerked his head away.

"That's wet. And may I remind you, madam, of my grandmother's words. You are too forward. And I am not in the mood." He attempted unsuccessfully to free himself from her grip. "Release me."

There was a minute pause, and then he felt the air move across his sweaty back.

He turned round to find the woman standing at the far side of the temple, looking as forlorn as someone of six foot nine who makes Wonder Woman look like a pipe cleaner is able to look. Oh, for heaven's sake, there was even a crystal tear running down one damask cheek. Good grief, he hated weepy women.

She stretched one hand towards him.

"You have a heavy, dark, disliking eye," she said tremulously. She wiped the tear from her cheek. "What have I done that you despise me so?"

He sighed. If she thought that making him feel a complete heel was going to help, then she was sorely mistaken. Feeling like that was his life's work.

"You are very lovely, madam," he grumbled, "but I am far too preoccupied ..."

His words were cut off by her burning lips, and he found himself caught between a cold pillar at his back and the best boobs in creation against his chest. He realised that his feet were dangling in the air and his knot had come undone. He pushed hard and was dropped.

"But you called me lovely," she cried dramatically. "Oh, you are so obdurate! I do not understand you! The darkness of your eye inflames me, and yet you are unkind!" With that, she turned on the taps again and sank her face in her hands.

"Oh, Merlin," muttered Severus, making sure the breeze wasn't causing havoc with his hemline. "Time of the month." Then, more loudly, "Spare me the histrionics, would you? It's not as if I'm God's gift to women."

She looked up with a hungry expression.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered. "Look, just calm down, will you? Another time, maybe, when I'm a little less ... embroiled ... perhaps. Right now I just want to get some completely unexciting sleep, with completely unexciting dreams."

Advancing like a warship with her arms outstretched, she did not appear to be listening to a word.

This time he woke up when he backed right off the precipice.

*

It became very nearly routine. She came on too strong, he fought off the temptation to give in – after all, he had quite enough of being everyone's toy when he was awake – she pouted and cried, he wibbled, she pounced, he struggled, they called each other a few names and then settled down to a glass of wine and a game of draughts. She was pants at chess. She did turn out, however, to be rather good at listening to him pour out his tales of unnoticed valour and brilliance, and his complaints about idiot Dumbledore, idiot Voldemort, and cretinous Potter and his cohorts while he lay with his head pillowed on her lap and his eyes turned up to the magnificent vista of her chest.

He held out the promised completion of his dream scenario as his reward when all this was done.

Which was why he was really pissed off that he was sufficiently worn out not to notice Riddle's subtle immobilisation charm, so he couldn't take the anti-venin he'd prepared and instead had to lie spilling out his life on a filthy floor and listening to Potter's and Weasley's footsteps clattering away, returning to drag off the Granger girl while she was rummaging in his pockets (well, she was the brains of the party), and clattering off again while they shouted down her protests about remedies.

Learning too late to adopt a philosophical approach to life, Severus set himself to leaving it as peacefully as he could manage. Unable to feel most of his extremities, he simply assumed they were relaxed, and what pain there was from Nagini's bite had already receded. Shame he couldn't close his eyes and spend his last few moments in his dream. Poison-induced paralysis did present some disadvantages as a way of dying, he decided. Although it apparently also activated an attack of alliteration. He was just considering how long he could continue creatively criticising his circumstances (okay, technically, that didn't work, but he thought a dying man might stretch a point) when a piece of white gauze fluttered in his peripheral vision, and suddenly she was there, kneeling heedlessly in his blood and pressing her cool fingers to his neck. She leant down and kissed his clammy brow as she slipped an arm under his shoulders and cradled him against her body. There were worse ways to go, he supposed. He drew a long, shuddering breath and expelled his final, happy word.

"Bazoombas."