Misery and Misunderstanding

Randall had kept his distance since the encounter by the lake. He would have liked to have said that he was being noble and giving his friend time to adjust to the kiss, but in truth, he was protecting himself. That afternoon had almost ruined him, and Randall had needed to adjust. The motive for the gentle kiss was uppermost in his mind, and he kept it there, otherwise he feared he'd succumb to his own selfishness and sweep Neville off his feet. He just hoped Snape made a move soon; good intentions had a best before date.

Damn the man!

His thoughts shifted from Neville to the enigmatic potions master, and it suddenly struck him that maybe he should be focusing more on Snape than Neville. After all, Neville was still feeling his way, as it were, but he was pretty sure Snape knew the shape of things. His lingering frustration dissipated like clouds under a hot sun. Was it possible to fan Neville's flames for Snape with some carefully placed jealousy? The thought had appeal...on so many levels. The problem was how to progress without jeopardising himself...or Neville. He nibbled anxiously on his lower lip. Love was many things...and it could hurt like hell. The question that followed him into a fitful sleep was whether it was worth the risk.

Good ideas never came at a good time, and when Randall woke, he did so to have his enthusiasm blunted. Through his window, he could hear the excited chanting of pupils as the morning built up towards the first Quidditch match of the season. Not being a fan of the sport meant that the preparations had passed unnoticed, and not being from Hogwarts, he had no particular allegiance to a House. He idly wondered if he should support Gryffindor or Slytherin, but the thought of sitting outside in the thin drizzle, crammed between supporters, did not appeal to him in the slightest. His plans to play Cupid would have to wait. From what he understood, Quidditch trumped everything...even love.

At breakfast, he saw Neville, wearing his House scarf and chatting excitedly to McGonagall. Later, Gryffindor played Hufflepuff, and although the outcome seemed fairly secure, there was still a buzz of excitement in the air. Such was the focus on the impending match that no one noticed him sit and eat, and Randall felt acutely isolated. He ate quickly and slipped away, comforting himself with the thought that he could catch up on his reading. It was a small comfort, however, as he walked along deserted hallways and heard distant snatches of gleeful laughter and whistles. Even the picture frames hanging on the walls were empty, the occupants securing better vantage points to watch the match. He would have laughed it off as the madness that sport engenders had not the weight of his sudden disconnection descended so heavily. He was almost bereft.

Feeling childish, he changed direction, heading for his room rather than the library. There was no reason why he couldn't join in. Quidditch couldn't be that bad. Besides, he was good at keeping up appearances. However, the closer he got to his room, the clearer an idea became. Everyone seemed nuts about Quidditch, and as deputy headmaster, Snape would be expected to attend every match. Randall was beaming by the time he entered his room and dug out his warm scarf. Having no House to support was suddenly a bonus. Quidditch was the arena in which he'd play, and Snape would be the Snitch. Even November drizzle wouldn't deter him.

ooOoo

It always amused Snape how friendly relations could disintegrate so quickly whenever Quidditch loomed. Just ahead of him, he could see the two figures of Pomona and Minerva walking along the path winding its way from the castle to the pitch. He couldn't quite catch what words passed between them, but their body language spoke volumes. The air practically sizzled. As they approached the base of the stands, he caught sight of Neville waiting by the curtain flap. He smiled at the witches, and Pomona was gallant enough to smile in return and give his arm a friendly squeeze before slipping past. Minerva paused to ask him something, then they too went inside. For some reason, Snape had stopped, his feet rooting to the spot. He convinced himself that he was merely giving them time to get settled in the stands...being polite.

"Hello, Professor Snape."

Years of perfecting indifference meant that he could turn to face Randall without so much of a flicker on his face. The young redhead was smiling innocently.

"Professor Randall."

"I was hoping to meet up with you."

The sentiment took him by surprise. He thought he'd disabused anyone of the notion that he could be approached sociably, but he couldn't deny the prospect appealed. Randall had featured in his thoughts repeatedly over the last few weeks, and especially since Tuesday. The urge to peer past those deep, green eyes pestered, but he restrained himself. On the face of it, Randall just seemed to want some company at the Quidditch match. What harm was there in that?

"Shall we?" he asked, waving his hand towards the gap in the curtain.

Randall nodded and stepped past, pulling the fabric aside. Snape nodded his thanks and walked through and up to his seat, acutely aware of Randall on his heels. As they wound their way up the wooden steps, it was as though Randall's body heat warmed his back, which was absurd, as he was wearing a coat thick enough to deflect spells. Nevertheless, it made his skin itch and spine tingle. A mix of frustration and delight squirmed in his belly, but a sense of vulnerability stained the feeling. It had been a long time since he'd dared to think of...

He stopped himself. Such thoughts meandered down dark and dangerous paths. Besides, it was still unclear what Randall's role and motives were in all of it. After all, a few days ago, it seemed that Randall was after Neville. Snape didn't like the thought that he was a poor substitute for the big prize. Sobering, he took his place, as did Randall. The teacher stands were not as packed as they could be, and Snape was grateful...it meant that they weren't pressed up against each other...and Randall was a polite distance away.

Throughout the match, Randall showed nothing but a keen interest in learning the basic principles of the game and how he could support Quidditch without alienating the students. Snape relaxed into the role, lost in the rules and regulations, strategies, fouls and penalties. He had never played, but as a youth, he had often proposed tactics to his house team. Some of that distant thrill strummed through him as he educated Randall.

Slowly, Snape warmed slightly towards the young man. If he were truthful, he was quite pleased: Quidditch did not appeal to him with the same vigour as his peers, so he found these matches almost tedious, save for Slytherin games. Randall helped pass the time rather pleasurably. It almost came as a shock when Gryffindor caught the snitch and with a roar, the match was ended.

Children sauntered out and back to the castle, excitedly discussing the highlights and bemoaning the failures. Randall sat and waited for Snape to stand, but the older wizard remained seated. From behind, Ravenclaw and Slytherin teachers chatted about the upcoming threat to their Houses as they left. Soon, only Snape and Randall remained. After a few moments, he realised why. A shimmering tabby sauntered into view, its tail high, almost grinning. Randall watched it leap up onto the balustrade and glide towards Snape.

"One hour and twelve minutes," she purred in Minerva's voice. "I hope your Seeker has been putting in some practise."

Next to him, Snape chortled softly. "Your Seeker was lucky. A shaft of sunlight at...the right time...hit the Snitch."

The cat sat and daintily licked a front paw, exuding innocence from every strand of fur. "Slytherin and Ravenclaw next time," she uttered smoothly. "Let's hope the weather is fine."

With that, she miaowed and faded away.

"I see the staff are just as devout as the pupils."

"Quidditch is...a large part of the school," Snape elaborated, standing with the smallest wince as his joints protested. "It connects us all. Professor McGonagall was...a keen player when she attended school."

"And you?"

Randall almost apologised for his question as Snape rose an eyebrow and thinned his lips. It had seemed innocent enough when he'd asked, but he sensed a load of baggage behind it. That eyebrow was remarkably expressive.

"Not all of us...are gods on broomsticks."

Sometimes, there are moments when someone's thoughts are chaotic and raw, and for a Legilimens of skill, these thoughts almost leap out, as if eager to be seen. Snape sealed his mind from the vivid thoughts, but not quickly enough to avoid getting a few confused snippets of memories. He saw a ring of leering faces, a broken broomstick, felt warm blood on his face...the sting of humiliation. He swallowed against the savagery of it...and the familiarity.

"We usually have tea...in the staffroom," he added soothingly, to which Randall smiled and nodded gratefully, seemingly unfazed by Snape's bitter comment. Snape was impressed, as many people couldn't control the subtle emotions from skittering across their face or swimming in their eyes with such skill.

"That'd be wonderful."

ooOoo

Neville held the cup in his hands, using it to warm his fingers. He'd forgotten how cold it could get. His toes were jealous, but they'd have to wait. The staffroom was brimming with post-match excitement, and he found it rather strange that it bore a remarkable similarity to his days in the Gryffindor common room. He wondered what it would be like in here when the Cup was awarded. Pomona was extolling the skill of her team, which was fair, given the challenges of the game, and it was lovely to see her face beaming with pride. Now that the match was over, Minerva and Pomona were talking animatedly together.

His gaze drifted over the gathered staff, and he realised that Snape and Randall were absent. He was sure he'd caught a glimpse of Snape earlier, but he hadn't seen Randall since Tuesday. That afternoon had confused him, and even after several days of mulling it over, he was still unsure what had happened. A blush warmed his neck. He knew he'd been kissed, and he'd found it...nice. His lips had tingled for hours. Perhaps he should have been offended that Randall had done it, especially after the Firewhiskey incident, but he just couldn't summon any ire. If anything, he just found it all confusing. There had been nothing in his younger days to suggest this development; he'd pined after Ginny. She had been his everything. Afterwards, life had become...complicated. He snorted. Was it really possible to be this unaware?! He was old enough to be a professor, old enough to have demons haunting him, and old enough to be a father, yet he felt so...naive. He took a fortifying sip of tea. One thing he did suspect was that he doubted he'd mind if Randall did it again.

Speaking of the devil! The man in question just entered the room, followed by Snape. Neville knew both of them well enough to see that they were companionable, and he realised with a shock that he was a little envious of how easily Randall dealt with Snape. He watched them walk over to the tea urn, where Randall prepared cups for them. He chatted to Snape as though they'd been friends for years. Neville was irked to see Snape flash a smile, and when Randall handed Snape the cup, he really could have let go of it sooner. It looked as though he was purposefully holding onto it. It began to dawn on him that Randall had been discussing Snape on that interesting Tuesday afternoon. A delicate frown rumpled his forehead. He remembered asking Randall if he liked Snape. So did that meant Randall thought Snape wouldn't mind if he were kissed by...

His perusal was interrupted when Pomona gently touched his elbow. "Good match, eh? I knew it would be." For a moment Neville couldn't breath; he wondered if such things were blindingly obvious and he was somehow completely blind! "Cooper has a way with him for getting the best out of people, and he's done wonders with the new Chasers." His breath came out in a soft sigh; it had nothing to do with Randall and Snape: everything was Quidditch.

"I was impressed. I think they'll give Ravenclaw a run for their money," he said enthusiastically, happy to be on firmer ground.

It was one of the things he loved about her: she always saw the individual effort and work and appreciated it. Everyone flourished under her care and guidance. He allowed himself to be caught up in her praise of her team, relishing her energy. She finished by giving his arm a gentle squeeze and congratulating Gryffindor on their victory. By this time, his tea was stone cold.

"Want a refill?"

Neville almost jumped out of skin. Laughing at himself, he turned and saw Randall looking sheepish. The confusion that had plagued him before melted away. It was impossible not to get along with the redhead. He couldn't help but cast around for Snape. The potions master had settled himself by the fire, nursing his tea and warming his feet before the flames.

"Not really," he answered. "I'd much rather have some coffee."

"Thank goodness!" Randall whispered. "I've been gasping all day, but everyone here only had tea. I thought it was sacrilege or something to ask for coffee during Quidditch."

Neville chuckled and lead him back to the urn. "I don't think you'll burn for drinking coffee, but you won't get any here."

"Oh...want to come back to mine and I'll brew some proper stuff?"

"Sure."

It was as though nothing had happened. They drank coffee, shared their recent classroom experiences, laughed, moaned about the protocols they'd had to learn and basically caught up. The bell for lunch caught them by surprise.

"Better go down for food, I guess," mumbled Randall. "I've been rather remiss of late."

"Me too," agreed Neville. "What with one thing and another, I've not been in the Great Hall since Monday."

"Come on, then," Randall urged, giving Neville a playful push on his back. "I'm starving!"

Neville laughed and grabbed his coat and scarf. "I'll meet you there. I'm going to drop these off and pick up some notes."

"Oh," Randall said with a frown. "You have a mentor meeting?"

"No, but I could do with popping into the library after lunch to brush up on some potions. Nothing important." Neville wished it could have been something more important, but recent weeks had proven too strenuous to carry on with his project, and until something clicked into place, he doubted they would start any time soon. The best he could do was refine what he currently knew and hope he had something good for Snape soon.

Randall shrugged his shoulders and flashed a smile. "Kind of glad I'm doing Arithmancy: less work by the sounds of it. Good luck!" he added impishly.

Neville blushed delicately and smiled back. "I should say the same to you."

Randall laughed bemusedly. "Why?"

Neville coughed nervously, feeling a little out of depth...he'd never even really egged on his friends at school for getting girlfriends: this was...awkward. "When you asked me about Snape, I didn't quite understand, but now I do. Good luck, you know, with Snape." With that, he patted Randall's shoulder and slipped out.

ooOoo

It had almost reached the two week mark prophesied by Cross. True to his prediction, Snape was reaching his limit. He had done well this time, in part to Neville and Randall. Both men had offered him something to ease the sting of his existence. However, dark curses cannot be staved off forever. His left arm ached. His throat burned. Minerva had seen his small decline, and they'd discussed his actions earlier in the staffroom. She hadn't liked to suggest the potion, but she had to put her role as Headmistress above her feelings, and she couldn't risk his deterioration affecting the students. True to his character, Snape had agreed, even if his lip had curled in disgust.

A protest had lingered on his tongue, but he'd reminded himself that Neville had come to his rescue in the corridor. It would be devastating if a student found him. He detested having to plan his life and schoolwork around his need. Sometimes, he wondered if death would be a better alternative; it would certainly spite the Ministry.

The lunch bell chimed, but he had no inclination toward leaving his room. If he took the potion, he would be well enough to join them for dinner. Disgusted beyond description, he heaved himself out of the armchair and stormed over to his desk. In the soft candlelight, the wood glowed blood-red. He ran his fingers over the dark surface, letting the familiarity soothe him. This desk had been in his allotted rooms, almost waiting for him, on his first day as Potions master, when his life had ended and he began pretending to live another for the sake of a promise. It had been in a sorry state, dusty and battered. In a bizarre way, he'd seen it as a reflection of himself. He hadn't used magic to restore it, but time and effort. It had taken months just to sand it down, to remove the patina of neglect and abuse. Each curl and ridge along the legs, the carcass for the drawers, the drawers themselves and the desktop. His fingers had bled, he'd had blisters and splinters and the dust had aggravated his eyes, but he had worked until the wood was smooth as glass. Then, he'd applied a stain, turning the mahogany wood a deeper shade, watching in amazement as the stain made it glorious.

The grain of the wood had greedily soaked it up, creating sweeping patterns which made it seem a living, breathing thing. Then a layer of varnish and gentle sanding, another layer and another varnish, until he had something beautiful, clean and pure. Dumbledore had commented upon its beauty many times, and maybe he had shared in Snape's fancy that it was linked to his own soul. Either way, the desk reminded Snape that not everything that is ruined or rotten is completely lost.

He collapsed onto the stool...one from the Potions classroom...and ran a palm over the surface. It was no longer smooth as glass. It was marked by his usage: grooves from his nib pressing through paper, circles from the bottom of his mug, worn spots from his elbows, pockmarks from reagent spills, a burn from a spell cast in anger. Some would call it carelessness on his part, but the marks and his desk told the story of his life in Hogwarts. He had few possessions that he held dear, and the desk was one of them. It pained him sometimes that he had no one to pass it on to, that the desk would become lost and alone without him.

Inside the top drawer rested his potion kit, and with bitterness, he removed it. It was a replica of the one in his spare room, but this one had one more phial. The crimson bottle was small and innocuous...and it was his last resort. He'd held it many times, even brought it to his lips once or twice, but he'd never despaired enough or had the courage to drink.

His fingers lingered on it, but then moved on towards the clear pear-shaped phial and the amber liquid inside. It was beautiful, he admitted begrudgingly; not only for its complexity and the skill in preparing it, but for its colour. In the gentle candlelight it appeared dark, like a fine whiskey, and in the sun, it glimmered like sunlight caught in a bottle. It had no discernible smell, but when he drank it, he was reminded of peaches. He couldn't reconcile how something so beautiful and delicate could engender such terrible things in his life. With a soft sigh, he pulled it free from its snug and removed the stopper. In one hasty gulp, he swallowed it. A dubious lethargy spread through his limbs. He would sleep for a few hours, then wake feeling refreshed and full of vigour, and he would battle his sense of defeat and weakness for needing the potion. In a daze, he plodded from stool to bed, and with the scent and taste of peaches, he slipped into an empty sleep.

Author's notes: I am need of a beta for this story. If you're interested and can tolerate having all kinds of angst, pain, suffering and other evil things thrown at you, then I'd really appreciate your help :) Oh...and it's a long story.