Hope and Hunger

To say he was disappointed was an understatement. His gaze loitered over every promising shadow, hoping to espy something related to potions, but the closest to a cauldron he could get was the gurgling brass coffee-maker in the corner. With a disgruntled sigh, he plucked up his cup and sipped the cappuccino. Coffee, cream and chocolate washed over his tongue, and he let the sensation oust his frustration. If he'd learnt one thing since being Snape's mentee it was that things happened...or didn't...for a reason. Another sip fended off a surprise counterattack of petulance, and then he relaxed, sagging bonelessly in the leather armchair. He was tempted to rest his aching feet on the low table, but he had a mental image of Snape's eyebrow twitching and Minerva pursing her lips, so he settled for merely extending them towards the crackling fireplace.

The location of the room was the same, but as with the Room of Requirement, it had morphed into one more suited to current needs, and Neville had needed a sit-down and a hot drink. Instead of the round table from his first visit, there was now a low table before a merry fire and two padded armchairs; the large arched windows had heavy drapes, which eased light gently into the room. It was cosy. The coffee-maker must be a set feature, he decided happily.

Behind him, he heard the wall clock chime out the quarter hour, and he pre-empted any rebellious upsurge of irritation by re-reading the scrawled note he'd found on the table. Snape had been held up with some school matter and would join him as soon as possible. His eyes followed the harsh slashes and the elongated loops, and he could imagine the author stabbing out the message as though paper had once dared to rebel at the prospect of being written upon. He had ended the note with a single initial, which mimicked a snake about to strike. Neville grinned and slid the slip of parchment back into his pocket.

While sipping, he idly wondered how they would start: would the room change into a Potions lab, or would they spend the first evening discussing options? The latter would be disappointing, but he knew blundering in would be foolish. He sighed. Who was he kidding? He was so eager to begin that he'd happily risk losing his eyebrows! His palms practically itched. It suddenly struck him how strange his life had become. When he'd been here as a student, he had despised Potions, fretted before every lesson and hadn't dropped the subject fast enough. Yet here he was, silently begging for Snape to hurry.

An image of the black-clad wizard slipped into his mind, and he let his thoughts skip back over the last few months. It wasn't as though Snape was a completely changed character...a gaze, twitch of the lip or a single word could still elicit a shiver from him...but he was more accessible and less of a challenge. It was perhaps more a matter of the changes within himself over the years and his recollections of his school days armed with the knowledge of what had occurred behind closed doors and in secret. Either way, he realised with some degree of wonder that he actually enjoyed being in Snape's company...he even looked forward to it.

His scalp tingled. Surely this was because of the potion?! Snape had offered him a lifeline when he'd been at risk of drowning. This feeling of warmth and need was down to gratitude...surely! Neville relaxed and slunk down into his former slouch. When they started work on the potion, he'd be less awestruck and needy. It was just nerves and excitement. He just wished he could shift the nagging feeling that something else was lingering on the periphery of his thinking; it was most disconcerting.

He was debating whether to have another coffee or leave when the door opened and the fire guttered indignantly in the grate. Neville scurried up from his slouch and stood to greet Snape. The man looked haggard, the soft light paling his skin to an almost unhealthy pallor, and heavy shadows lingered beneath those dark eyes. It crossed his mind to ask if Snape wanted to postpone the meeting, but he bit his tongue.

"Coffee?" Neville asked, snuffing out the last embers of politeness.

Snape nodded curtly and stepped over to the furthest chair where he sat down with the smallest happy groan. As an afterthought, he tapped the low table and muttered something. In response, several platters appeared, laden with fruit, cold cuts, cheese and bread, accompanied by a pitcher and two goblets. Neville's stomach growled in appreciation.

"I missed dinner," Snape said brusquely. "We'll eat as we talk."

Neville's shoulders slumped slightly at the news that they wouldn't be starting immediately, but he accepted the wisdom. He returned to his seat, placing two coffees on the table. Snape nodded his thanks and then pulled out the battered black notebook that Neville had given to him. His pale, slender fingers caressed the supple leather, as though bidding it a farewell.

"I have no more need of this," he declared simply. "You have...exhausted all lines of enquiry...within."

It hadn't been meant as a criticism or scold, but some of the old Neville rose up in pained shock, but as Snape stretched and winced to offer the book, it settled back sheepishly. Snape had actually complimented his diligence and efforts. He had to fight to keep the satisfied grin off his face. The last vestiges of frustration and tension melted away, and he reached out to take back the precious account of his trials. His fingertip brushed over Snape's thumb, and he noticed the man's hand twitch as though the touch tickled. He smiled a quick apology.

"Thank you," Neville replied, tucking his book into his breast pocket. "I admit I have nowhere else to go potion-wise," he added while settling back with his cup. "I was thinking about using a concentrated tincture of Rosemary, but I'd need a powerful anti-emetic at the dosages required."

He continued in the same vein, offering suggestions and half-formed ideas, trying to draw inspiration from the air or purge himself of burgeoning possibilities. Snape listened attentively, nibbling on a sandwich and watching various expressions flit across the young face opposite. The passion for the subject was blatantly clear, the depth of knowledge staggering, and his energy quite exhausting to watch. Neville was a breath of fresh air in his currently suffocating world.

Despite the distance he'd endeavoured to maintain, they had attained a 'relationship' of sorts. Minerva would call it the stirrings of comradeship, or more alarmingly, friendship. This had happened quite rudely. It hadn't asked his permission or sought his approval; events had conspired against him to make Neville one of the few people who had seen him at his weakest. Fate had colluded to put Neville in the right place at the right time for him to feel an indefinable connection with the young man. The cosmos had given Neville the solution to all his woes and then plonked the boy right in his lap! And to make matters worse, Neville was...likeable.

He bit down harshly on the last bit of crust. In mentor meetings, Neville had been perspicacious, charming and relatively without fault. The other members of staff liked him, and the students respected him enough not to give him hell in class. The months had revealed a capable and dedicated man with a quirky and sometimes dark sense of humour, and what had impressed upon Snape the deepest was Neville's generosity of spirit and unquestioning support. Only Minerva had shown such unwavering and undemanding consideration of his well-being. And then there was this shared delight and irresistible challenge of striving for more: Potions and freedom. It was quite intolerable. Neville was running the risk of becoming important to him. And then there had been that subtle brushing of skin against skin.

He hadn't been able to ignore the electric jolt at the contact. He may have brushed it aside as a natural involuntary reaction, but then Neville had flashed him a gentle smile. It had somehow pierced all his defences and barriers. The last person to smile at him like that had been a lifetime ago when he'd told a girl she was a witch. Lily had smiled just like that. No judgment, no queries, no hidden agendas or promises, no tricks or catches: just the joy of a simple connection between two people. It almost hurt.

The more Neville shared with him...the humorous little anecdotes of potions with surprising consequences or hints of despairing times...the more he resonated in sympathy. He didn't like to admit it, but he felt a tremulous bond forming; their past strife and current plight connected them. His fears of having something he could lose or have ripped away from him reared up like a Dementor, leaving him sick to his stomach and reeling. This time it wasn't hope or a sense of escape, it was much worse. To hammer home what he could have...if his cautious hunch was correct...his skin still tingled from Neville's simple touch.

Snape stiffened in the chair. Part of him wanted to scream out, begging Neville to leave and never return, but another part stifled that demand, wishing to enjoy the rare wonder it was experiencing. In what had been an age of loneliness, hope was stirring and raging valiantly against self-preservation. What was life if it was careful? What was life if it was reined in? What was life if it was purposefully kept empty? He didn't like the answer.

Fear began to swirl in his guts. He'd lived with it for years, but this was different. The source of it wasn't outside in the shadows or on the end of a summons through his Dark Mark; it was within. His own thoughts and wants were the cause. The stimulus for it all was talking excitedly in the chair opposite, completely oblivious of their impact. A sudden thought made him blink and snort: had Neville felt something similar to this in every Potions lesson?

Neville stopped dead at the interruption and then sighed, looking dejected. "Yes, I suppose I was going off on a tangent."

The fear didn't completely evaporate, but it cleared enough for Snape to see some sort of way out. He was used to patience...knew her charm and wiles, her generosity and bitterness...and he knew how to deal with it. He'd use time and observation to ease his dilemma. Perhaps now he could actually nurture hope. Wasn't he owed?

"No," Snape uttered softly, his voice well-trained to disguise his true feelings. "In this case, all avenues are possible routes...to the destination."

oOo

The thing about spells affecting memory is that they tended to block rather than...as the spell name inferred...destroy. Peters knew this, although the mechanics of the spell eluded him. Therefore, he knew that with work, the affected memories could be restored. Oddly, their restoration wasn't the most immediate concern; he was more worried about making sure it didn't happen again. Working on the timeline had offered up only one possible scenario: he was being obliviated while working with Snape. Once this had filtered through his disbelief and repulsion, he had pondered the motives and possible goals of the offending parties. But his ruminations had only lead to one solid outcome: they wouldn't be pleased he knew.

It still baffled him as to what they wanted and what they were really up to. Snape always left in a relatively fit state...a bit confused but seemingly well enough to be released...so what happened in those odd moments of mental blackout was a mystery. The only thing of value Snape possessed was his memory, and he supposedly volunteered that as a condition of his release from Azkaban. Were Burke and Cross searching for memories beyond their remit? If so, he couldn't see why they would feel compelled to compound their crime with assaulting a fellow Auror. Also, it wasn't as though they had ever been given a formal range or types of memories to work with. They had to be doing something that they perceived to be...dodgy.

Shaking off his circuitous thoughts, he followed the stream of fellow Ministry employees through the main doors and across the pale marble foyer. All he could do for now was wait until Snape was recalled and watch Burke and Cross as closely as he dared. Snape was a stubborn wizard who pushed himself to the absolute limits of the potion, so he guessed that he had about two weeks before things came to a head. He hoped it would give him time to discern some rhyme or reason to what was happening.

In all fairness he wasn't sure what he was going to do at the end of his investigation: who would he report them to? It wasn't as though he had concrete proof. His swirling guts had alerted him to some strangeness which had then led him to his conclusions, but his guts weren't admissible in court. He needed more than just hunches and headaches.

He slipped into the quiet canteen and grabbed a cup from a towering stack on the tea trolley. The urn gleamed in the sunlight; it was so well scrubbed it probably glowed in the dark. He muttered his desire, and as the hot water filled the waiting cup it turned black. Wafts of strong black coffee hit his nose and he inhaled appreciatively. Now he was armed with caffeine, he felt ready to head to the small room where he and the fellow low-level Aurors resided.

They had joined the department expecting challenging interrogations and exciting avenues of investigations, but most of the time, they say like forgotten tools in the shed. Only when they were needed were they summoned down to the interrogation rooms. They were considered trainees in the art of forensic memory examinations, but deep down they knew they were lackeys. It rankled, but they all had a passion for the work; they had all lost someone in the war. The chance to secure justice was just too alluring to give it all up.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the room was bigger, brighter and the atmosphere more warming, but it was too small, too dim, and it really needed better ventilation. However, they sat and worked in companionable silence, waiting for their cases to come in or some other summons from their mentors, all hoping that someday, they could host the interrogations.

At this hour, the office was usually empty, and it was a moment to cherish. It was silent, it was peaceful, and it felt proper. When the shift started, it escalated quickly to barely organised chaos, with paper darts zipping along corridors, secretaries chasing up tasks and Aurors dashing off for their meetings and assignations: complete madness. So it was with some flutter of annoyance that he noted someone was waiting in the room, disturbing his early morning routine.

"Hello, may I help you?"

The elderly man turned and smiled. "Yes, indeed."

Peters moved to stand behind his desk and plonked the cup down. As he did so he studied the newcomer. His age was evident from the deeply grooved skin and liver spots to the thin white hairs atop his head. He was tall, but age bent him down upon a black walking stick with a silver handle. Pale blue-grey eyes stared emptily back, and their lack of emotion disturbed Peters.

"My name is Archibald Stokes," he answered in a crackling, age-dried voice.

The name flicked a switch in Peters' head, and he wished he'd actually been late. Stokes was the man behind the department; the patron to which it owed its existence! His breath hitched and icy fingers played along his spine.

He let out a shaky laugh and extended his hand. "I am sorry, Mr Stokes," he muttered. "We had no idea that you'd scheduled a visit."

Peters felt his face flush. What on earth was he doing in this part of the department? No one had instructed him on what to say to the man in charge. It was nerve-wracking! He'd worked in the Ministry for nearly ten years, and in all that time, he'd never spoken or been in the same room as the Minister; it just wasn't expected that the very humblest of staff members would ever meet the highest.

"Auror Cross is aware," he offered softly. "Although, I'm a little earlier than we agreed."

"Oh... er... would you like something to drink, sir?"

"No, thank you."

Peters' already limited amounts of idle talk dried up, and he frantically thought of something to say, but his mind was stubbornly blank. Gratefully, he was spared by the sound of the hearth flaring into life and the form of Cross emerging from green flames. While he adjusted his glasses, he flashed a puzzled glare Peters' way. Peters wondered if there was concern or guilt swirling in that quick glance.

"Ah, Mr Stokes," Cross began politely. "I was just informed that you'd arrived."

"Don't worry yourself," he replied generously. "I felt the need to see the fruits of my ideas and policies. Financing RID has brought me an immense amount of pleasure, but I was overcome with the desire to be a physical part of it...to have that tangible connection, rather than hold mere documents and reports."

Cross frowned and waved a hand towards the open door. "I can arrange a tour now, if you'd care to come to my office."

Stokes studied the small room with a fond smile, and then he seemed to deflate. "Of course, Cross, but first, I need to pay a visit to Maud."

"Maud Jenkins?" Cross declared with some confusion. "I...yes, well, her station is on the way. If you'd follow me?"

"I have to inform her that a colleague of hers has sadly passed away," he added, ignoring Cross' hints to leave. "It will no doubt bring her great sorrow. And I believe Agnes Clewes will benefit from being informed. I would very much like to pass on my condolences to both ladies." Cross nodded and stepped closer to the waiting door. "Such a tragedy."

The old man turned slowly to face the door, his steel-grey eyes latching onto Peters for the smallest uncomfortable moment, and then he was hobbling away, his weight heavy on his black cane.

As he left, he uttered emptily, "But death will come to us all."