Promises and Prods

It is a sad thing, but those who live through two terrible wars...more, if you include those revolving around Muggles...to a great age cannot cite luck as being the sole reason why. They survive because they possess skills, talents and character... and a pinch of luck; and they live because they have the mind to put such horrors in the corner, out of the way, out of sight. Suffice to say, it is those individuals who know how to do or survive terrible things who grow old. It was due to these skills, talents and presence of mind that both Maud and Agnes were able to sense some looming dread and confront it with only the smallest visible amount of worry.

It had been nine hours since a stranger had gallantly offered his sympathies and service to them in their time of grief, and they had continued to carry out their daily tasks and duties with utmost professionalism and attention. Perhaps around dinnertime in the canteen, they may have shared a perplexed and slightly fearful glance, but otherwise, they were granite: tough, hard and impermeable. If anyone had watched them throughout the day...and they suspected they had been...they'd have seen two sweet, old ladies doing their jobs. Beneath this smooth surface, however, their insides swirled as though the rock they resembled were being birthed beneath their skin: writhing, indescribable heat and terrible, crushing pressure.

But they were old and canny, and they knew how such things worked, so they bided their time, kept the gnawing and scratching impatience caged, and waited for a secure opportunity to talk.

Muggle pubs were fantastic places. Wizards tended to be far too snobbish at times, and they preferred to hold clandestine meetings in the most obscure forest, cavern or derelict building they could find. However, the best places were busy, Muggle public houses. There were several reasons for this: one, the mere thought of venturing into such areas was almost unthinkable to many wizards; two, the amount of technology that Muggles carried around with them these days was enough to disrupt all but the most sophisticated and fiddly of surveillance spells; and three, the atmosphere tended to be slightly better.

The Lamb was such a pub, and on Monday evening, it was heaving with people listening to a live band playing folk music. Maud and Agnes wove between the bustling listeners and settled onto a padded bench in the far corner, where they could see most of the lounge. They did so without so much of a drop being spilt. This wasn't down to any spell or charm, per se; there was just something about old ladies that resonated in certain people, and as such, the crowd unconsciously parted for them from some unspoken and mystical code of conduct. They took a sip of their drinks, sighed contentedly, then pulled off their hats and unwound scarves.

"I 'aven't 'ad a Bass shandy in years," Agnes muttered. "Shame that we're 'ere drinking to Norbert."

Maud tutted softly and took another dainty sip of her lager and lime. "He'd approve," she replied generously. "Although, I think he would have preferred us having something stronger...more refined, perhaps."

Agnes smiled sadly, tears glimmering against her lower lashes. "I can't stand whisky, me." She sniffed and dabbed them away with a hanky. "Even the smell puts me off." A pained sigh slipped past her wobbling lips. "Shame really, 'cos I always thought 'e were a 'andsome man."

"Oh, Agnes," Maud said gently, patting her friend's hand.

"I know, but such is life."

They drank in silence, listening to the odd strains of music filtering through the raucous crowd, until they were satisfied that no one had followed them or they were being overheard.

"The Ministry is treating the death as natural," Maud whispered with cold matter-of-factness. "No one saw anything to indicate spell-work, which is supported by the forensic team: no evidence of magic."

Agnes frowned and lowered her half-pint glass. "I can't say different," she mumbled. "The woman I questioned only 'eard a scream. No one actually saw it 'appen. I did a quick check, and I couldn't pick up anythin', either."

"Could it have been a heart attack?" Maud asked, and there was a hint of need in her voice.

Agnes sympathised. It would be so much easier and simpler if it had been; in that case, the man offering condolences would be just that. Agnes slowly shook her head. "I 'ave only that scream, but it's tellin' me it ain't right!"

Maud closed her eyes and nodded. Norbert's lungs had been all but useless; he ran out of breath just thinking about walking and, consequently, cast spells to help. With no magical traces, then he hadn't cast spells to aid his breathing, and if that were the case, then he couldn't have managed anything more than a strained rasping cry. That haunting scream lingering in their heads would have been beyond him. And if he had managed to howl, then somehow the magical trace of his spells had been eliminated. Either way, he hadn't died alone or naturally. At least, that was what their instincts were hinting at.

"Someone cast a spell then swept the place," Maud stated resignedly. "I can't think of many who would have the skill to do so thorough a job."

"They'd 'ave to know some of the tricks the forensics bods use," Agnes added just as dejectedly.

They paused and took a hefty gulp from their drinks. This was getting complicated, and the more Maud cogitated, the more she thought it had something to do with RID, Minerva's request and Peters. Somehow, they all connected. She hastily gulped down another mouthful.

"What exactly did Norbert say about those Black Memories?"

Agnes shuddered and went quite pale. "Just that 'e thought 'e saw a row of 'em down in one of the unused rooms, but when we went back down, there was no sign of anythin'." She took a fortifying sip and leant closer to Maud. "He said 'e was sure there'd been eight, but later 'e said 'e must 'ave dreamt it or somethin', 'cos there was nothin' there at all." She fixed Maud with a piercing glare. "Except dust!"

Maud returned the glare and snapped out in anger. "You went looking!"

"I may 'ave... but it were to put 'im right!" she replied tetchily, but then collapsed in upon herself and stared morosely at the tabletop. "'E kept 'arpin' on about somethin' not being right down there. So I went down there with 'im to shove 'is nose in 'is stupid paranoia; you an' me know that there couldn't have been them Black Memories down there!" she uttered emphatically. Or perhaps she was trying to persuade herself. "I missed it 'cos I was so angry, but Norbert must 'ave seen it. 'E went sick later that day, and I knew somethin' was wrong, but I was so mad at 'im for bringin' the past back." She looked up, her eyes wide, and she reached out to grab Maud's hand. "I'll never forgive meself for being so blinded."

Maud almost dropped her glass and felt her fingers tighten around Agnes'. There was something in her expression that made hairs stand up on end and her guts tighten.

"I may 'ave missed it altogether," she continued, fear tingeing her tone, "but they weren't clever enough; oh, 'e replaced Norbert's footprints in the dust and got rid of 'is own...even thought about the odd vermin traipsin' in...but they forgot about the door 'andle on the inside. When I'd grabbed it, it'd been thick with dust!"

Maud frowned delicately. "Norbert may not have touched the handle when he left?" she queried gently.

Agnes tutted and shook her head. "Don't matter, love," she said exasperatedly. "All door knobs in that Ministry are charmed to clean 'emselves when they're touched...somethin' to do with a spate of poisonin's back in the day from contaminated knobs...there's a load of dirty jokes scrawled in the men's lavvy about it. Anyway, if the outside is grabbed, then the inside gets a clean too. Norbert must 'ave seen the dust on me 'and and put it together."

"So, after Norbert went in there the first time, someone emptied the room, cleaned up, dressed the room in dust and footprints and Dis-Apparated out?" She studied Agnes carefully. "Are you sure no one saw you?"

Agnes rolled her eyes. "I was bloody good at infiltration back when we were fightin' Grindelwald, and I ain't changed... other than get old. I made sure I weren't seen."

"But... well, let's face up to it, we believe Norbert was killed for what he'd seen in the room, and I do believe they were exactly what Norbert claimed they were."

Agnes paled further and shook her head firmly, as though trying to knock out the abhorrent thought. "No, they can't be! They must be somethin' else... somethin' else that someone wants hidden. I don't even want to think about 'em!" she finished petulantly.

Maud was about to protest, but she knew Agnes would just dig her heels in and become stubborn. She decided to leave it; upsetting Agnes would serve no purpose. There was someone else who would benefit more from hearing about Black Memories, and she'd content herself to wait for then.

"Okay," Maud soothed. "But it would be more than fair to assume that anyone associated with Norbert will be scrutinised."

Agnes nodded and drank her shandy, still obviously unhappy about the direction the conversation had taken. Maud couldn't blame her. They'd come across Black Memories during their work against Grindelwald, and although they had only been whispered about, the mere concept had been enough to instil dread and nightmares. It was difficult to even imagine how the process worked and what it did without feeling nauseous and unclean. The knowledge that someone was actually collecting such memories was appalling.

"And I'm quite certain it's more than coincidence that someone like Stokes should come and convey his sympathies," Maud said tartly. "Did you know he finances RID?"

"No, but Cross looked nervous as 'ell, didn't 'e?" smirked Agnes.

Maud smiled wryly. "Yes, he did; and it'll do the smarmy bugger good to wriggle around a bit."

A giggle erupted from between Agnes' pursed lips, and her dark mood lifted a little. "I quite agree."

Maud paused, her mind whirling with plans and possibilities. They couldn't ignore this or hope that someone within the Ministry took up the challenge, but neither did she feel they were the ones to do such a tremendous thing. It was nerve-wracking. But a phrase sprang to mind: nothing is settled until it's settled right! If she left this, it would never be settled right, it would just settle. She really had no choice if she wanted to be reunited with her family and be able to hold her head high.

"We'll have to tread very carefully," Maud hissed out sharply. "We're not as...agile as we once were. If we err, it'll be more than us that suffers."

Her comrade nodded curtly. "I never liked what they were doin' down there. I sometimes think that what goes in doesn't come out...if you get me meanin'?"

To her shame, Maud acknowledged the comment and felt besmirched, dirty...almost culpable. "Well, it's about time it stopped."

"Right!" Agnes agreed forcefully, finding something more palatable to latch onto. "So, when are we goin' to look into the affairs of that Stokes man?" she asked with the slightest amount of glee.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" Maud asked.

Agnes reared back, looking hurt, but then grinned. "You tellin' me that this 'asnt fired you up, woman? Merlin, I feel sixty years younger."

Despite herself Maud chuckled. "I believe it has."

"Besides," Agnes continued, a hard edge to her voice. "Someone killed Norbert, and in my book, that needs settlin'."

Maud nodded and lifted her glass. "It does indeed. To Norbert!"

The soft clink of glass against glass somehow managed to rise above the clamour of singing men and drums, and it had all the portent of the first gunshot.

oOo

Randal poked his porridge and sighed dejectedly. In between tasteless mouthfuls and glances to his right, he was trying not to let the inevitable bother him. When he'd drunkenly tried his luck with Neville, he'd spent the evening testing the waters, making subtle moves, reading signs. He knew Neville better than Neville knew Neville. He sighed and pushed a thick wall of soggy oats up against the side of his bowl. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't been crushed after his friend's gentle refusal, and he would be even more of a fibber if he said that he was completely overjoyed with current events. However, he knew better than to wish for things he couldn't have, and if Neville was attracted to Snape, then he wouldn't get in their way.

Jealous. Yes, he was jealous... and he was frustrated beyond words. He'd watched them over the last month and a bit...in mentor meetings, at staff meetings, at appraisals and at mealtimes...and the way they circled each other was driving him insane. He was half-tempted to lock them in the Potions cupboard and leave them to it until nature took its course.

Neville was in that confusing place of just trying to figure it out, but Snape... well Snape was an entirely different beast. He shuddered and pummelled down some unruly thoughts about the black-clad wizard; he doubted he could handle the Slytherin. A smile tugged at his lips; he'd enjoy trying to make sure, though.

He sobered and glanced across at Neville. Merlin, he could so very easily become lost in those silvery-blue eyes, but he knew he had no chance. At first, he'd suspected that Neville was in awe of Snape from his days as a student, but as time wore on, he came to recognise the symptoms. Unfortunately, Neville was utterly unaware of his condition. And perhaps it was this limbo that left him feeling so despondent and wistful: it opened up the possibility he could try to kindle something between himself and Neville. If Neville had turned him down and promptly run into Snape's arms, he'd have been gutted, but not left restless and ever-wondering.

Snape, on the other hand, had seemed to withdraw as far as manners would allow, and yet they somehow gravitated towards each other. He felt a flicker of sympathy for the Deputy Headmaster; there was no worse place than to feel an attraction and be unsure of its return. But the man would have to be blind not to see how Neville's manner changed whenever they were together! If Randal believed in fairy tales, he'd quite readily wish them a happy-ever-after. All Snape had to do was kiss sleeping beauty and wake him up.

He could just make out Snape's profile past Professor Sprout's hat, and he saw something like wariness on the pale features. From snippets he'd caught around the school and his memory of past events, he could hazard a guess that Snape was all about control and propriety and keeping 'in line'. Randal shivered. He knew all about keeping up appearances and being careful: about the sacrifices that had to be made and the opportunities mourned.

Admitting defeat on his breakfast, Randal sat back in the chair and surveyed the Great Hall. Most of the students had fled to their first lesson, and the remaining few, with bedraggled hair and fretful faces, gulped down eggs and sausages. He smiled as they rushed, knowing that he had the luxury of an after dinner start. With a thrill, he realised that Neville had most of the day off too. He smirked and drained the dregs of his pumpkin juice. If this was how it was, then he was damned if he was going to sit back any longer and watch them flutter around each other. It was high time that both of them realised what was happening. And if it came to Potions cupboards, then he was all for a helpful shove in the back.

Another day was neatly tucked under his belt, and he felt very happy with his performance to date. Pomona had informed him with a beaming smile that he was not only hitting all the targets for the term's work but he had managed to surpass a few. The students seemed to like him; his fellow teachers were now in that tetchy stage when talking to him, which in his scheme of things meant they had accepted him into their fold, otherwise they'd still be overly polite. He'd never felt quite so secure, and Snape had finally started work on his dream, so all in all, he was very, fluffily happy. The next meeting was heavy in his mind, but he knew the week's workload would help time pass quickly. Nothing could scupper Neville's good mood.

Tuesday was a good day for him, as he had one lesson before dinner and then his timetable was clear until the last lesson of the day. It was an opportunity to collect ingredients and enjoy the glorious countryside around Hogwarts. After signing out, he took the main path down towards the jetty on the lake. It seemed a life-time ago when he'd docked there as an eleven-year-old boy, terrified and exhilarated. He smiled at the boats bobbing gently next to the wooden walkway and continued down to a small inlet where he'd noticed some interesting algae the week before.

The air had a nip to it, and by the water's edge, he felt chilled, but it was invigorating in a strange way: icy fingers pinching his cheeks, and cool palms slipping under his sleeves and collar to caress his skin. He wanted to raise his arms and let the wind curl around his body, but he thought it would be too much this close to the castle, so he lifted his chin and shook his head. The breeze obliged and ran through his brown hair, brushing over his throat and teasing the nape of his neck. He grinned. It was just the right side of naughty. And if anyone saw him, they'd just think him silly.

He indulged himself for a few minutes before plonking himself down on the thick grass and poking the collection of deep maroon and dark green algae with his wand. He wasn't sure as of yet what species he was examining, but such things had amazing properties, and he'd resolved to collect and study his find, to wring out every secret it possessed. His work comforted him, and he busied himself testing and harvesting, his eyes ever watchful for other interesting sample and specimens.

Across the lake, dark eyes were also watchful. It wasn't as though they had intended to spy, but while he'd been out collecting potion ingredients and seeking a moment of selfish peace, he'd noticed Neville. Their owner had not found Neville's moment of self-indulgence to be silly. On the contrary, it had almost been his undoing. Of course, they were heavily disadvantaged in their interpretations of facial expressions and the inviting tilt of a jaw. Snape had been almost jealous of the wind's freedoms.

Neville had developed into a remarkably attractive man, and he was wonderfully oblivious of such. Too many of Snape's former associates had known exactly what power they had and used it brutally at times. Neville's innocence was quite... soothing; it offset the almost heart-stopping terror of his allure. It also gave Snape a sense of power, and that was dubiously empowering and...erotic.

Decades ago, this had been so simple. He hadn't cared about consequence; the fear of not being close to the person he loved had been more devastating than anything else. He'd suffered the wrath of Gryffindors and the disgust of Slytherins, and it hadn't mattered. It had even made him beg at the feet of a Dark Lord and all that entailed, but nothing had mattered but her and the horror of living without her. Now, he could barely even admit to himself what he felt. When had he become so...cowardly?

While he ruminated on unfavourable and unwanted answers, he caught sight of Randal sauntering down towards Neville. A hot flash of something that he begrudgingly accepted as envy flared in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than for the handsome and charming professor to turn tail and run. Unfortunately, said handsome man saw Neville and practically skipped over. It was sickly sweet; there should have been rainbows and bluebirds. Snape felt his teeth crunch in their sockets as his jaw muscles bunched. If only he could get away with a hex...or small curse; he knew ways to hide spell-casting. His palm itched to hold his wand, but he resisted the urge: Minerva would only scold. From his vantage point, he settled for the next best thing and cast a spell to eavesdrop.

"Hello, Randal," Neville said with genuine warmth. Snape's insides turned to ice.

"Hey, Nev."

Nev? What an insult to shorten such a name!? Snape groused. Personally, he'd only ever tolerated having his name contracted by two people and only because he'd loved them: Lily and his mother. His icy guts suddenly turned to water, and he felt nauseous. Had he lost Neville even before he'd held him? He studied Rhine as a competitor, and his flagging spirits guttered. His body sagged, and he held onto the slender trunk of a nearby silver birch.

"Pomona said you'd be down here," Randal continued.

"I was going to classify this handsome chap and then see if it could be of use in the curriculum somewhere: there is a decided lack of aquatic plants on the syllabus."

"If you say so," Randal replied sceptically.

Neville laughed, and Snape revelled in the soft baritone rumble. If this was all he was going to get...these crumbs from someone else's table...then he was going to glut.

"You should give it a go," Neville chided gently. "There's something so...simple and honest about tending plants, watching something grow under your hands."

Randal sniffed and frowned. "I prefer reading."

Neville laughed again, and Snape's heart clenched. It was almost torture...or a punishment: a punishment for being a coward.

"Each to their own," he acquiesced with a shrug.

"So, you've been busy chasing down shrubs and things for the last few days and nights?" Randal asked rather too innocently.

Neville glanced up from his task. "I've had some extra work from Professor Snape, and the workload is always heavy at this time of year: seeds and flowers need more attention."

"Professor Snape?" Randal repeated smugly. "You mean 'Severus', surely?"

Even from his distant viewpoint, Snape could see a blush creep up Neville's neck. "Yes," Neville mumbled. "But.. well...it's difficult to explain," he added defensively.

Randal laughed, and it was full of mirth and mischief. "Still worried that he'll hand out lines or a detention?"

"No," Neville retorted sulkily.

"No concerns that he'll corner you like a child out after curfew and fix you with a dark stare while he numbers your sins? Hmm?"

There were undercurrents in those questions that swirled past Neville completely unobserved but caught Snape, almost sweeping him away.

Randal lithely sat down, his knee bumping Neville's in the process. Snape felt something pop in his ever-tightening jaw at their proximity; it was unseemly, inappropriate and jealousy burnt his chest. To his dismay and frustration, Randal leant in and loomed over Neville, his eyes hooded and undecipherable as he held Neville's perplexed gaze.

"Scared that he'll make your knees tremble and go weak?"

Neville tutted and turned back to the slippery plant. "I'm not scared of him."

Randal snorted and leant in further so that his lips were at Neville's ear. "You have no need to be," he whispered, his breath ruffling the fine hairs at his temple. "You're not a child anymore; you're a professor now, just like he is."

Snape almost snarled when Randal's pale, slender hand slipped up Neville's arm to rest on his shoulder, and fingernails bit into the smooth silvery bark when Randal moved to surreptitiously inhale Neville's scent. How could Neville be so godsdamned oblivious?! He had to grip the tree to stop himself drawing his wand. It was maddening to watch Randal do so easily what he longed to do so hungrily.

"I know that," Neville snapped rather waspishly.

Randal paused, then rolled his eyes and settled back with a fond smile playing about his lips.

"You're missing one hell of an opportunity," he sighed.

"What are you talking about?" laughed Neville.

"If I had been right about you," continued Randal light-heartedly, "and I were you, then Severus would have to be ever so careful around me."

Snape frowned and some of the tension eased; this change in direction was interesting. Perhaps Randal wasn't quite the predator after all, and he rested against the trunk, wishing that the spell could also enhance what he was seeing; he longed to observe what was flitting across Neville's face.

"The things I'd want to do and have done." He sighed as though savouring some sweet dream and closed his eyes. "I'd ache to have you look at me with eyes full of every delicious wickedness that could be done. I'd burn in that stare. Why, I do believe I'd even beg you to look at me that way," he said softly, opening his eyes and studying Neville's face. "And I doubt he'd want someone to cower before him. Oh no," he said conspiratorially. "He'd want me to fight, so there was no choice but to punish me... break me. He'd want to lick and touch, and bite and suck until he was my utter undoing, and I'd beg him not to stop."

His voice was so light and whimsical that Neville listened in befuddled disbelief. Snape, however, was listening to someone describing his most desperate wants. His breath caught in his throat, and he went lightheaded. It was all he could do stand upright. Just before Snape felt obliged to hex the young man, Randal was sitting back, idly caressing the stiff grass and looking as innocent as any first-year. Snape looked at Neville, who seemed in a daze, and he wondered just how Randal's little speech had impacted upon the Gryffindor. It was difficult to spot the signs that would have given him clues: his pupils flaring; the flicker of a pulse in his throat; shallow breaths over swollen lips.

"But he's a teacher!" gasped Neville, completely scandalised.

"You're not his student anymore, you know?" Randal teased gently.

What he wouldn't give to see Neville's face! Within the last few words, Snape's view of Randal had changed immeasurably. He wasn't completely sure what the redhead was up to, but the threat he posed seemed to diminish.

The blush intensified. "This is silly," Neville snapped out.

"Okay," he replied. "But you know you don't really want him to be just a teacher, don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Neville asked exasperatedly.

"Oh come on, Neville!" he hissed out in frustration. "Don't tell me that you haven't noticed how...fascinating Severus is?"

The question rattled around in two skulls: Neville was trying to grapple with seeing Snape as anything other than a Potions teacher, and Snape's mind had temporarily shut-down. Both of them, however, looked at Randal as though seeing him for the first time. Neville eventually shook his head and shrugged, but his lips were firmly pressed together. Snape's eyes narrowed, and he longed to rummage around in Randal's head to determine what the young Arithmancer was playing at. It almost seemed that he was being helpful, but to what end, he had no idea: Randal could just be dead-set on driving them both insane.

"You like him?" Neville asked gently.

Randal snorted. "Do you?"

There was a tense pause in which Snape held his breath and Randal looked as nonchalant as a cat watching a canary.

"I think you're barmy," Neville said with a shaky laugh. "He's Snape."

That seemed to answer everything, and he turned back to harvesting the plant. Behind him, Randal sagged before looking up to the heavens as though seeking help. After a minute of determined gardening and silent hoping, Randal sighed and stood.

"I have to go back," Randal muttered despondently. "I have some marking to do. See you later for dinner?"

Neville nodded slowly, his head still spinning from the odd conversation. "Yes, sure." He suddenly rose to his feet and grabbed Randal's arm before he could walk away. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I understand."

Randal smiled and cupped Neville's face tenderly. "I know."

Then he leant in quickly and pressed his mouth against Neville's, long enough for the shock to wear off but short enough that the mind hadn't quite settled upon a decision. With that, Randal turned on his heel and stomped rather forlornly away, leaving two very thoughtful wizards behind.