Pensieves and Possibilities

Stoke's visit had shaken Cross. It was undeniable, but he still couldn't discern the exact reason why. His role hadn't been threatened, his professionalism not questioned, but something lingered, like an unpleasant aftertaste. Combined with Burke's impatience, he was beginning to feel pressured. Snape was close to breaking, but to rush its conclusion would only destroy his mind. Cross still harboured the desire to crush Snape utterly. Burke could pluck all the Unforgivables and Unspeakables from Snape's mind as he wanted, but Snape belonged to him until he was a gibbering, broken wreck, begging at his feet, mewling and bawling, accepting his guilt. No Deatheater was innocent; no Deatheater was worthy of forgiveness.

Snape was stronger than he'd given him credit for, and his friends and allies were confounded to a degree he'd never seen before. The Dark Lord had obviously taught him some exceptional spells to befuddle and bewitch, but everyone cracked. The professors would be hurt for a while, betrayal always hurt, but in time, they'd be thankful for having Snape's veil lifted from their eyes. Perhaps when Snape was finally punished, RID would be suitably lauded and Cross could rest easy in the department's future. Then he could cast off such leeches as Burke.

As in if answer to his thoughts, a soft chime rang out. A potion had been used. There were still quite a few Deatheaters left who required the potion, so his heart didn't flicker at the cue, but his breath caught and his heart lurched when he saw the patient number: one six nine. His thin lips cracked into a smile. Maybe soon, he could try some of the new tactics he'd researched. An automatic response was prepared. All that was required was a signature, and then Snape would be his. He settled back in his chair with a smile, his concern melting away as he planned the next session.

ooOoo

Agnes and Maud knew Norbert had lived a long and lonely life, but it still cut to the quick that they mourned alone and no one seemed to notice he was no longer around. They comforted each other with the knowledge that they were the best at their jobs, which is exactly why no one knew or remembered them. It was a bittersweet solace. And because they were good, they were now barely making a ripple, even though their insides squirmed unpleasantly, and the very walls of the Ministry seemed to drip with old and vile secrets. Today was different though. Agnes had done the dishes.

Norbert had been a sly one...a clever one. His plans and tactics had saved their lives on many occasions, and now his death had done the same. The uneaten bowls of soup that he'd placed so carefully in the floo grate had contained more than just cold chicken broth. When the investigation had closed and his property opened to family and friends, Agnes had been to the dingy house and collected what was hers: odd cups, cutlery, a few bits of crockery, the good teapot and the dirty bowls. Preservation spells cast at the time of discovery meant that nothing had altered since that night, and it had snatched her breath that the last bowl had still been warm.

Angry and hurt at his death...possible murder...she'd found the uneaten food an insult to her care and diligence. A bowl had met a messy end when it connected with a wall. As the contents had slid down, she'd caught sight of something glimmering. Curious, she had stepped over to see what was hidden within the broth. Norbert had bequeathed them what he'd seen...and more.

Acting quickly, she'd saved the silvery gifts and then sifted through the other bowls. In total, she'd found twelve distinct memories. Baffled, proud, anxious and determined, she'd contacted Maud, and they'd visited the Lamb to discuss their next move. After a shandy and stout, they'd planned to meet up again at the weekend, to give them time to see if anyone else was interested in cold chicken soup.

Now, almost two weeks after his death, they sat at Maud's kitchen table, staring at the pensieve and the swirling memories within. The old wall clock ticked away, and the house creaked as it settled. Within the small stone bowl swam demons and devils, and they were afraid to dive in, but they were Norbert's, and they knew they couldn't ignore it. Glancing at each, dread etched in their faces, they reached in and let the memories swirl around their trembling fingers. Within moments, they were drawn into darkness and things long past.

It wasn't pleasant. To convey his conviction, he'd drawn out the memories from his time at Grindelwald's side, where he had worked on refining the concept of Black Memories, so that Maud and Agnes could find no escape in denial. Every evil thing he'd done was laid before them. In hindsight, his behaviour, evasiveness, loneliness and pain made more sense, became more pertinent and poignant. They were torn between a sense of keen betrayal and an intense longing to let him know he'd earned forgiveness.

There had been only one memory of immediate interest, and that had been when he'd first drawn a Black Memory. Despite what was displayed before them, they still found it impossible to believe that something so evil could exist. After the shock had dimmed to a dull ache, they returned to the memory to review it dispassionately, to learn all its secrets.

Norbert...young and wild-eyed...was bent over a corpse: it's skin dry and shrunken, the hair thin and wispy, lips shrivelled and pulled back. It was clearly long dead. It was laid out on a table, surrounded by stubby flickering candles and bunches of strange herbs and burning stalks sending oily curls of blue smoke into the air. In the flickering light, they saw him mutter a spell while moving the wand in a complicated sigil, air currents catching the smoke and directing it into swirls and odd shapes. Behind him, they saw the shadowy outline of another wizard, his face hidden but his stance tense and alert. Norbert continued muttering and swaying for several minutes, sweat beading his brow and his face contorting with effort. Contrary to the natural order of things, the corpse twitched, then the jaw moved. Fingers jerked and the scrawny feet kicked feebly. The stranger let out a rasping sigh, reaching out to clasp Norbert's shoulder. He leaned forwards to study the animated cadaver, and his face came into the light. It was Grindelwald.

Despite the shock, they continued, dreading the rest of the memory, but eager to learn all that Norbert wanted to teach them. Their gazes were drawn back to the desiccated face. The tongue had long since wasted away, as had the eyes, so it mouthed silent words while eyeless sockets drew them towards unfathomable depths. Wasted hands began to claw at the air and the legs spasmed.

"Quickly!" Grindelwald demanded. "You know what I need."

Norbert nodded and placed his wand at the thing's temple and began to tug. To their horror, they saw him spool out thin, viscous black strands. It clung to the wand like bitumen, glistening revoltingly in the candlelight. He lifted a bottle and eased the mass from the tip, watching it slide slowly down the glass like a fat slug. He returned to his task, each time pulling out the Black Memories, ignoring the plaintive struggles of the thing on the table. The reluctant witnesses were transfixed as he worked, pulling hours, then days worth of memories out of the corpse's empty skull.

Their minds couldn't quite fathom the mechanics of how it was working, the answers too abhorrent and sickening to contemplate, but they were forming an unsettling conclusion. Somehow, the soul's very memories were being pulled back into the decaying remains and Norbert was siphoning off what Grindelwald wanted. It was too much to take in, and they opted to leave delving too deeply into what was happening, otherwise they'd fear for their sanity. It was clear that whoever was on the table was suffering, and an intense pity burnt through them to the point where tears spilled down their cheeks. They couldn't help but wonder if the soul would come to look unknowingly upon their forgotten loved ones. The only succour in death was that it was supposed to be an end to suffering...and yet here that boon was rendered moot...it was cruel! It was hideous.

Grindelwald leant in closer and studied the bottle and the tar-like substance within. "Do you have it all?"

Norbert shook his head. "I cannot draw out what isn't there," he answered in a strained voice.

"Death restores everything," Grindelwald stated coldly. "You assured me that this method would bypass all attempts to keep secrets from me."

"If it was Obliviated, forgotten or extracted in life, then I can draw it out now in death." He paused and took several steadying breaths. "I cannot take what was never there," he repeated with as much frustration as he dared to show. "Rest assured that everything he knew in life regarding your need will be in this jar."

Maud clasped Agnes's hand and they cleaved together. The corpse seemed terrified, desperate to stop what was happening, its clawed hands trying to stop the tip from touching it. Grindelwald was laughing and urging Norbert on until half the bottle was full and the corpse had stopped moving.

"He's dry!" Norbert rasped, collapsing sideways, his face pale and clammy, and the bottle held up precariously.

Grindelwald caught the bottle and stepped away, his eyes fixed solely on the contents.

"Very well," he mumbled. "You've done very well, Norbert...very well." He placed the bottle in his pocket and looked back at the corpse. "The grave is no longer silent," he said softly before letting out a jubilant laugh. He then pulled out his wand and immolated the cadaver until nothing but powdery ash remained. The memory began to fade, and they saw Norbert, hauling himself back to his feet, his face wet with tears, trying to gather together the ash before it blew away. Maud felt Agnes' fingers bite into the back of her hand.

The kitchen was cold and dark when they emerged. Their hearts were beating fast and nausea clung thickly to their throats. Black Memories had always been thought of as terrible fancy...as the dream of a madman, but Norbert had cracked it. He'd pulled them out! They ran shaking hands over their faces, wiping away the dried tears.

"'Ave you got anythin' to drink?" Agnes asked hoarsely.

Maud nodded and magicked a bottle and two glasses from the sideboard. With a shaking hand, she poured two shots. They drank the lot in one gulp.

"Sweet Mother of..." Agnes said hotly. "What 'ave I just 'ad?"

"Homemade peach schnapps," Maud offered wheezily. "My man used to make it. He said it could cure anything."

Agnes snorted and put down her glass. "Bet it takes paint off an' all!"

Despite that, they both had another glass, their minds too muddled to latch onto anything other than the sting and heat of alcohol. Slowly, they incorporated the memory into their own. What was done was done. They couldn't change that, and they knew how he'd suffered during the war. It seemed to them that in some way, perhaps it had happened the way it was supposed to happen. Norbert wasn't that infirm that he couldn't have defended himself, and he'd been canny enough to protect himself. Maybe he'd allowed his past to catch up. If they were honest, a deep and dark part of them...the part that still hurt and snarled from the war...felt satisfied. Norbert had desecrated the mysteries beyond death, raped the minds of the dead and damaged the soul. It didn't ease the sting of his death, though.

"Silly sod," Agnes muttered sadly, putting into words what they both felt.

Maud sighed and relaxed, turning her mind over the memory objectively. "How long would you say it took him to get those memories out?"

Agnes stiffened and pursed her lips. "I reckon twenty minutes...and he got about seven fluid ounces." Maud frowned and glanced at Agnes sceptically. At her look Agnes bristled. "I make a lot of jam," she snapped defensively.

"Okay," Maud retorted. "We know now he saw eight jars in that room."

Agnes' eyes fluttered a moment as she worked out her measurements. "About one hundred and twenty fluid ounces," she declared. "Give or take."

"So, that's about...five hours worth of work."

"If you say so," demurred Agnes.

"And it looked pretty exhausting."

"Not to mention that exhuming a body ain't exactly quick an' easy."

"And where would you set such a ritual up?"

"Need to be well ventilated," Agnes said thoughtfully. "All that incest stuff would have knocked 'im out."

Maud paused and then sighed. "You mean incense."

"Whatever..." Agnes mumbled dismissively. "An'..." her brow furrowed as she went back over the memory and her own. "Sandalwood, mugwort an' ...hmm...Solomon's seal." She drummed her nails on the table, as if the sharp tattoo would help her thinking. "An' lavender. Somethin' else..."

Maud was momentarily exhausted: her mind unfocused. She'd seen the flowers but Agnes seemed to have seen something else, some deeper significance. She knew better than to interrupt, so made tea while her friend was lost in thought. She stood by the window, filling the kettle, and saw her reflection in the dark glass, a ghostly face merging with the twisted branches and black, swirling clouds. The nights were drawing in fast as they approached December. Normally, despite the cold nibbling at her bones, she liked the cosiness that winter forced her to adopt. The fire would be burning in the grate, and the smell of stews or soups would greet her nose on coming home. She'd be baking shortbread soon for the local schools, and the robins would come and sing in her garden, This time, however, the outside was bitter and cruel. The clouds were heavy and threatening and the branches like talons, seeking to slash her.

The kettle, heavy in her hand, brought her back to herself and she shook off the gloom. She lit the gas, and rested the kettle on the ring gently. Behind her, she could still hear Agnes muttering, and she smiled warmly. It was nice to have the company; loneliness creeps up so softly that sometimes you don't even realise it's there with you until it's forced to leave.

"Bloody Althaea root!" Maud turned and saw the satisfied grin spread across Agnes' wrinkled and worn face. "I knew I knew it!" she said triumphantly.

The kettle began to whistle, intent on being dealt with first. Hastily filling the teapot, Maud sat back down across from Agnes. "Does that mean anything?"

Agnes' smile faltered. "I'm not sure," she said softly, reaching out to pat the back of Maud's hand.

The tea soothed them and they took rapid gentle sips while it was hot. They went over the memories they'd experienced. It was clear that the pensieve had acted as a teacher and a protection. He'd drawn out everything linking him to them. He'd known someone would go rummaging around in his head...and that meant...

"Someone else knows 'ow to get Black 'uns," Agnes said hollowly. "'E bloody well knew that someone were comin' for 'im!"

Maud shared Agnes' bitter frustration, but it softened as she thought deeper. "He didn't know who though." Her brow furrowed and the teacup paused en route to her quivering lips; something nagged at her mind. "His owl was killed," she whispered, her lips slightly ahead of her thinking.

Agnes caught on quickly and tutted. "Ye can get 'em from beasts, too?" She moaned, but then a vicious, victorious smile split her face. "That explains that scream!"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm bettin' he couldn't get anythin' outta that owl...or Norbert," she said gleefully. "All that an' he got diddly-squat!"

Maud smiled. "Norbert was good at frustrating people."

"And helpin' us," Agnes added. "I think we're lookin' for someone as old as us...or thereabouts, who may 'ave 'ad somethin' to do with Grindlegums."

"And someone who can duplicate Norbert's ritual and spells."

"And 'as access to the Ministry," Agnes offered.

Both of them sipped tea and let their minds drift over strategies and plans. Several cups later and when the clock chimed out ten, they had settled on their plan of action. It helped ease their confusion and agitation. Despite Norbert's actions, there was still someone out there doing these vile things, and they needed to be stopped. Perhaps by the end of it, Norbert's last actions would be deemed purifying and grant his soul peace.

Over the next few days, they organised themselves to start the investigation armed with the knowledge from the pensieve. Agnes had taken over many of Norbert's duties in a bid to learn what made him investigate the room in the first place and who potentially could have trailed and killed him. Maud was going through the books, old accounts, anything to find something rotten in RID. There had to be a link between the processes involved in memory work and Black Memories. They both hoped to find something because the alternative was dredging up all their old memories and allegiances, and that was almost unthinkable. Sometimes, to catch devils, you had to become one.

Agnes mopped her way through most of the old storage rooms and long abandoned holding cells, and her duster poked into every nook and cranny in the dingy offices, but nothing had come to light. Cobwebs had faced her frustration, and a colony of Doxys had fled in the face of her consternation. She knew something had to be down here. No one was that careful. She'd wracked her brains trying to think who was still around, but as far as she knew, everyone was either too old or too dead. Norbert must have known them, though.

While clearing out the bins in Dispatch and Procurement, she casually had a good rummage around in the desk. Collecting such memories was a hefty task, requiring particular skills, reagents, materials and resources. Firstly, it required a corpse. Dispatch and Procurement was a rather strange name, but the department dealt with the collection and appropriate and respectful disposal of wizards residing outside normal conditions: those in Azkaban and disowned; the unknowns living in the Muggle world; the dark creatures; and for those where spells had rendered it...difficult for traditional funerary rites. Following a hunch, she wondered if there were any...stray corpses.

For her part, Maud was busy with her task and looking after Peters. The lad had promise. When he'd returned the notes, she knew he'd found something, and he'd had the good sense to keep it to himself. She tutted softly. Aurors just weren't trained to the same standards anymore, she groused. In her day, Aurors would have seen him and his suspicions a mile away. She saw it as a mixed blessing, though. It was vital that he finished what he started: Severus Snape was important to Minerva and she felt he was the key to cracking the Ministry open. However, Peters needed a little guidance before he put a target on his back and perhaps a push in the right direction. It was time to start calling in a few favours from the other secretaries. Firstly, she needed clarity on just how memory extraction and investigation worked. An unpleasant idea was forming in the back of her mind. Luckily for her, the Offices for Magical Research were just down the hallway, and a certain young secretary was about to repay a favour. Unfortunately, she felt that time wasn't on their side. This time, things would get...messy.

ooOoo

Snape slept slightly longer than usual, and as such woke past the dinner bell. Minerva wouldn't mind his absence, but it rankled him slightly that he'd missed a duty. Trying to disperse his frustration, he inhaled deeply, relishing the fact that he could do so without his ribs aching, and stretched, letting the tension out of his muscles. It wouldn't last. On Monday, he'd receive another summons from the Ministry, and then he'd have to face them before experiencing the rapid decline until his next potion. He was its slave.

Realising that he was on the way to despairing and self-pity, he got up and lit all the lamps. Next, he put his mind to a task. Neville's potion leapt into mind like an eager puppy. Guilt settled on his shoulders, and he slumped a little. The potion had been so important at the start, but the few meetings had only confirmed his initial suspicions: it just wasn't feasible. Neville had shown great skill and dedication, and as such had travelled all available avenues. There simply wasn't anywhere else to go.

He summoned a coffee from the kitchen and returned to his desk, where he pulled out his pen and paper. Something had caught his imagination back in Wales. Something had tugged at his interest. Neville! Snape snorted at the suggestion, but couldn't quite reject the notion. Unbidden, he recalled with excruciating detail the moment his anger and fear had bested him and pressed Neville up against the rock. He'd been so close to him, smelt him, seen his pupils flare as adrenaline coursed through his veins, felt the pulse beneath his fingers on the boy's throat. His mouth went dry when he remembered how Neville had wrapped his arm around him for support...and then that gasp when his wand had pressed a little harder. He could still feel the warmth of his body.

With effort, Snape cleared his mind. It wouldn't do well to dwell on things beyond him. However, it did give him an idea. Up until now, Neville had focused on reviving the memories lost or trapped behind the madness. Snape had to agree the memories were there, as nothing had been done at the time to eradicate or remove them. He would never disclose to Neville how he knew this to be true; only Dumbledore knew the truth of that night. No one else needed to know. Of course, that begged the question of what the Longbottoms would do when and if they regained their minds. It was a sobering thought, and one he cared not to ponder.

Returning to his original idea, he considered the possibility of withdrawing the memories of the event that had spawned the Longbottoms' mental decay in the hopes that the trauma could be excised. Would that give them the chance to gather themselves together and restore their sanity? It was an intriguing idea. It had been that one event that had shattered them. He'd witnessed how the Cruciatus could break memory charms, so could breaking the memories of the curse reverse the damage?

He knew from bitter experience how disorientating it was to lose vast chunks of memory, but if he'd learnt anything, it was the fact that you could recall nothing, it was a void, empty of thought and feeling...until it was force-fed back to you. The Ministry adopted a modified method for withdrawing memories. Normally, there was an echo of the memory left behind...a dim awareness of it. This meant that you were still familiar with it, like an instinct or emotional response. He'd used the memory charm often enough in the past to diminish their presence, such as when teaching Potter Legilimency or hiding them from Voldemort. In the case of his interrogations, every last trace of the memory was cut out. Associated memories collapsed away into confused snippets, like discordant harmonics in a song, or took on different aspects, sometimes scary, funny or strange.

Nausea crept up his gullet. He was surprised he could even contemplate doing to Neville's parents what was being done to him, but the idea was in his head, and it was germinating quickly. He had to at least investigate the possibility. If the consequences of his past were to catch him up, then he felt it better and apt that Neville should benefit.

ooOoo

Randall had had enough. Neville's parting words had been sweet and generous and completely infuriating! What was Cupid to do? If he thought they'd really help, he'd make a love potion and force feed them both. It was getting to the point where he was thinking about writing a 'How to...' guide...with illustrations. He'd caught up with Neville at lunch. but the seating meant that he hadn't had the chance to talk to the man, and by the end of the meal, fatigue had crept up on him. He was just too tired to attempt anything.

Flashing Neville a peeved glance, he sauntered off, ushering a few stragglers off to their dorms as he went. He was in two minds to finish marking homework or relax with a bit of Arithmancy...it had been a while since he'd actually applied his art. He could, if he focused, attempt to divine the future for Snape and Neville, but from experience, he knew it was a dubious thing. No, if he were going to do it, then he'd let himself become lost in the purity of the numbers. However, his mind drifted back towards the Neville and Snape dilemma. He was sure that should anyone else become aware of the situation, then they'd be as frustrated as he was. There again, why was he so wrapped up in this?

Neville was a lovely man, and he certainly deserved to be happy and loved...and Randal was almost positive that Snape could make that so...and Snape was just desperate for someone like Neville. It was so ridiculously simple! It wasn't just that though. Randal wanted those things too. Perhaps his efforts were more to help himself than either of his friends. If he couldn't be happy with Neville, then maybe being happy for Neville would be the next best thing.

To relax, he'd completed a basic chart, and was now sitting back, admiring the numbers and lines upon the page. A sudden thought gripped him, and he decided to complete such a chart for Sinastra, as a gift. It wouldn't be a prediction, but rather an arithmantic representation or history of her impact upon the school and him. The older styles of charts were now considered too florid and archaic, but Randall had always been partial to how artistic they looked. He could do one with numbers and linking lines in gold and reds and then frame it in a case, like they used to do when the study was relatively new and only secretive lords could afford the Arithmancer's rates. It wouldn't be too garish, as it would only be about twenty by fifteen centimetres; and he already had a gold-filigreed case to slip the chart into. He grinned at the thought, feeling pleased with himself. All he needed was a few details from the library to link in her birth date with events of the day to create a start point and then figure out where she'd been born. Simple. It would also distract him from Snape and Neville. Between the two of them, he was being driven slowly mad.

His research meant that he failed to hear the gong for dinner and worked late into the evening. The librarian walked around, ousting students, and when she met Randall, she nodded by way of greeting and left him to his work. So it came as a surprise when he finally stretched and checked the time. It was well past ten o'clock. He banished the books back to their places and carefully rolled up the scroll containing his rough calculations. The next step was to get some decent paper and brush off his best quills.

Sighing softly, he stood, pushed his chair under and pulled on his jacket. As he was leaving, he heard something coming from the shadowed aisles. Thinking a student was out past bedtime, he crept over, hoping to catch them unawares. It would be useful if he could cultivate the same skills as the teachers: stealth being one of them. He homed in on the furtive rustles of paper and cloth. His heart fluttered a little, and he couldn't help but smile at the role reversal. How many times had he been the kid out past curfew?

At the next aisle, he caught sight of shadows shifting over the bookcases, so he paused, took a deep breath and bolted round the corner with a snarled greeting. He wasn't sure who was more alarmed: him or Snape. Judging by the wand aimed at his face, Randal assumed Snape was.

"I'm really sorry," Randal professed hastily, his hands up. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his spine, and his heart hammered uncomfortably. "I thought you were a student." He swallowed, his throat unnaturally dry.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow, the wand still aimed.

"If I'd have known..." he trailed off. He wasn't sure how to finish. Several options sprang to mind. They ranged from the purely lascivious to simple survival. "Look," he added, "I'm not about to run off or deface the books, so could you lower the wand?"

Snape had been caught off guard. He knew Madam Westin had cleared the library and had assumed he was alone. His reading had been all consuming, enticing him, and rekindling the desire to work, to fight. When Randall had leapt round the corner, he'd reacted defensively. Initially, his heart had lurched from dread, but upon seeing Randal, it thumped for another reason. The delicious flicker of fear on Randal's face was delightful, and he was torn between guilt and pleasure. The beads of sweat glistening on Randal's upper lip, the dilated pupils, his tongue peeping out to moisten dry lips were very...distracting.

Snape was wiser than Neville. He knew what he liked, and he knew what Randal liked...hadn't he confessed his wants to Neville by the lake? And whereas Neville was confused and unsure of things, Randal was not. It was so tempting! It would have been easy. All Snape had to do was take one step closer, lean in, let his wand-tip slide slowly down the man's cheek, and Randal would whimper and beg. Yes, it was so incredibly tempting. He felt muscles bunching in his thighs, ready to move, but he knew this was just the potion, and he knew it could make him reckless. Tonight would be glorious, but tomorrow would be full of regret.

Randal had had time to see beyond the wand, and like Snape, he was keen enough to see what others tried to hide. He was no Legilimens, but he could read people well enough to hazard a guess at their thoughts and needs. Snape radiated something that snatched his breath. He shuddered at the prospect. It just wasn't fair. Randall knew all he had to do to push Snape was to gasp a little, or put a little pleading into his expression. To make Snape moan, all he had to do was mewl a little. Part of him was willing to fall down on his knees and beg Snape for everything he had to offer, but another knew it would be out of line. Another part wondered if Neville could cope with what Snape might offer. Besides, it would scupper his plans for Neville if he and Snape were to...Hell! It was so godsdamned tempting!

Snape was the stronger man and lowered the wand, sheathing it smoothly within his sleeve. "I should apologise, too," he responded smoothly, impressing Randal, who had lost the ability to even formulate words. "That was unprofessional of me."

"No problem," Randal croaked. "Guess I should make more noise next time."

"Indeed."

"Well," Randal concluded. "I'll leave you to your study."

But he just couldn't leave it. The seconds caught in Snape's gaze had burnt, and he wanted Snape to feel as branded as he. He just had to give him something to mull over, some hint of what could have been...and maybe what still could be. "I just need..." he said, stepping closer and reaching out for a book. He subtly tilted his jaw, exposing his throat, biting his lower lip at the effort of stretching. Former lovers had always found his neck alluring. As he walked away, he swore he heard Snape moan.