Ill Portents

Disclaimer: (In the spirit of Crimson Starlight)

Kim: *speaking and gesturing animatedly at hardcopy of latest fic* ...you see here? I fixed this plot hole with this... *trails off as a tall, stunning, ebony-haired, pointy-eared male enters*

Shana: *looks up from pages at pause* Huh? Oh, hi, 'Ro.

Elrohir: *performs sweeping bow* Ladies.

Kim: *gaping*

Identical voice from around corner, getting closer: Hey, Shan! Are you aware you're out of... *enters room* Well, hello there.

Shana: 'Dan. Where one goes, the other is sure to shortly follow.

Kim: *bug-eyed and gaping*

Elladan: *snort*

Elrohir: *chuckle*

Shana: *snicker*

Shana: Kim, meet Elrohir and Elladan, the bane of my friend Serenity's existence. Guys, this is Kim.

'Ro and 'Dan: *beaming smiles. (Can we say "highbeams"?)*

Kim: They're... Can't be... No fucking way...

Shana: *rolls eyes* They are, it can be and yes, way. Say hello to two of Tolkien's elves.

Kim: abwahbwah...

Shana: *smirking* I own the plot and original characters. All else belongs to JK Rowling. Dang, girl. What is it with you and "tall, dark and ugly males"?

'Ro: We are...

'Dan: ...most certainly...

'Ro & 'Dan: ...not ugly!

Snape: That would be a matter of opinion.

'Ro: Dude! Where'd you...

'Dan: ...come from?

Snape: *eyebrow* And you have the audacity to call yourselves "warriors."

'Dan: Dude! He can do...

'Ro: ...the "Haldir brow"!

Chapter 12: Ill Portents

Shaluinn waited until she was a good distance down the corridor from the Great Hall before dropping her stiff, haughty posture. Goddess, I hope I didn't overplay that. They would have questions no matter what I said or did. But hopefully now the lot of them will use Minerva as a go-between, rather than approaching me themselves. The redhead halted and took several steps to the side, before turning to press her back against the cold wall. She brought her hands up, rubbing her face reflexively.

Oh, God, please tell me I did not just hamstring myself. Her ass was beginning to numb from the cold stone at her back. Head bowed, she pushed off, distractedly paying little attention to her surroundings, instead berating herself silently. You better not have made enemies of them. McGonagall was definitely confused by that behavior. But it was more than that.

Did you see the way they looked at me when I walked in? It was like they had seen a ghost. No, that's not right. This castle is full of ghosts. No, it was like they were seeing someone else in me, someone they definitely don't like or trust. Someone... The American literally stopped dead in her tracks.

Could it be? Could that possibly be? She shook her head at herself, moving on. No, no, that's simply not possible. I've yet to meet that man. How could I possibly imitate someone I've never come into contact with? Yes, Albus told me a great deal about him, but to reach the level of mimicry necessary to be convincing, I would have to observe him myself. I know I'm an excellent mimic, but without a baseline to draw from, there's nothing to copy.

The witch continued walking, hurling denials and accusations at herself, unwittingly moving deeper into the castle, away from her intended destination.

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Several beats passed back in the Great Hall before everyone began talking at the same time. The obvious topic of conversation was the witch who had just exited. Only two of the individuals at the long table remained silent, lost in thought, or simply trying to ignore the ruckus around them.

Minerva had propped her right elbow on the table top, supporting her head in her open right hand. She was trying by sheer strength of will alone to banish the headache that was battering at her temples. The Headmistress didn't know what to make of her new UD professor's behavior.

One moment the American seemed like a "normal" person, with a pleasant, albeit somewhat odd personality, the next she had become a cold, cynical, well, bitch. The resemblance to Severus Snape had been uncanny and more than a little disturbing. Minerva had no way of knowing if the redhead had done that on purpose or if the resemblance was simply accidental. The one thing she knew for sure was that it had thrown the rest of her staff into an uproar. That, and the American's "short-version" of her life story.

The elder witch suddenly realized she should have been more wary and less blindly accepting of Albus and the redhead's admissions and explanations. She was simply under too much pressure. She had anticipated eventually taking over the Headmaster's position, but not under these circumstances. It was too much, all at once. The Scot wondered idly if she had somehow been bewitched.

I should have at least asked for references or something. And how do I know the rooms I assigned her were actually meant for her? She dismissed that last question as silly, for Albus had only been working on that one set of rooms. They were obviously what he'd meant when he said she knew which ones to take the American to.

Her left hand joined her right, coming up to cover her face, an aggravated sigh escaping her lips. If I'm lucky, this newcomer will keep to herself and not give me any reason to sack her. Now if-- She stopped her mental ramblings short, both hands dropping to the table top as she suddenly realized what the redhead must have intended. She's pushing everyone away. The witch turned her gaze on Hagrid. Everyone but myself and Hagrid. It brought up more questions than it answered. She must have some reason for this, though what it is, I cannot fathom.

For his part, Hagrid was happily humming to himself, trying to decide which species of dragon to talk to Professor Callaway about first, if he should tell her about Norbert, if he should make some rock-cakes for her anticipated visit or something else. He was so caught up in his excitement over getting to know the intriguing woman--She used a Time-Turner for seven years!--he tuned out the hubbub around him.

The rest of the seated group was in a veritable uproar, passing comments and observations back and forth, up and down the table.

"...strange woman..."

"...seven years using a Time-Turner..."

"...What're 'marital arts'?"

"...mother was a very powerful witch..."

"...what's with all the black?"

"...was baiting Irma!..."

"...moved just like Snape..."

"...sounded just like Snape..."

"What if that was a Polyjuiced Snape?"

The last was uttered as a near-hysterical shriek.

"Enough!" Minerva cut off the wildly flying speculations. She waited until she had everyone's attention before speaking. "I can assure all of you that Shaluinn Callaway is NOT Severus Snape in disguise." At the dubious looks she received, she elaborated. "I have spent some time with this American witch and have seen her do things Snape could not and would not ever do. And she has Albus' confidence."

"You're taking the word of a portrait?" Hooch asked incredulously.

"Her mother was Jolena Anhel. It only makes sense she'd be a very powerful witch," Slughorn offered.

"Stop it!" the Headmistress remonstrated loudly. "Would you just listen to yourselves? You sound like a bunch of bickering first-years! Did you not consider, for just a moment that she noticed your suspicion and hostility? I would have been as defensive as she, had I received such a welcome!" Minerva threw down her napkin in disgust. "Bah, this has put me off my breakfast." The witch rose from her seat at the head of the table. She couldn't resist taking a final shot before stalking out. "Shame on you, all of you."

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Once again, Shaluinn had managed to get herself lost. She was veritably storming through the corridors when she suddenly felt that prickling on the back of her neck that meant someone was watching her, and very intently. The woman halted in her tracks, weight balanced on the balls of her feet as she pivoted in place, searching the shadows around her. A flicker of light-colored movement had her twisting to the right, wrists flexing as she brought her hands up, wands at the ready.

She had dropped back into a modified kata stance. Left foot was forward, right foot back, weight balanced between and body angled to the side to present the smallest target possible. Had she been wielding a katana, both hands would have been over her head, gripping the hilt of the weapon, blade and point angled at the enemy. As it was, her right hand was held high, at an angle over her head, her left extended in front of her, wands held firmly in each. Mustering a false bravado, she called out, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

She proceeded to let her mouth drop open in shock as a tan man with the body of a horse moved into view, hooves clicking on the stone floor. He was simply... breathtaking. Long, white-blonde hair framed a tan face set with vivid blue eyes. His firmly muscled torso melded into a palomino body, the effect both exotic and intriguing. He was obviously a centaur, and given his presence within the castle, he could only be one specific centaur. "Firenze."

His name came out as a whisper, but one that he must have picked up, as he proceeded to perform a rather courtly-looking bow, reminiscent of circus horses she had seen growing up. "I am," he acknowledged, straightening up. "And you are Shaluinn Callaway, the new professor," he stated as he clopped toward her, taking in the redhead's gaping mouth and relaxing posture, clearly relieved she had lowered her wands. The barest hint of a frown crossed his face as she flexed her wrists, reseating her wands.

Realizing how stupid she must look, the American closed her mouth with a click before answering. "I am." She still held herself tense, knowing she shouldn't feel threatened by this creature. Dumbledore had passed on an abbreviated version of how the centaur had been cast out of his herd and come to be the Advanced Divinations professor. If anything, she identified with him, understanding what it was like to be shunned, cast off by your own. She hadn't left the Air Force Academy willingly, after all. But she was unwilling to drop her guard around anyone here.

"It would seem I have gotten myself lost, wandering about, yet again," the woman admitted.

"'Not all who wander are lost,'" the blonde centaur answered.

"Ah, Tolkien. I love his work." The redhead smiled slightly.

"I have enjoyed reading his many books. He was very talented."

"Indeed."

Firenze swept his arm toward a doorway on his right, before disappearing through it.

Her curiosity piqued, Shaluinn followed the centaur into the darkened room beyond. Looking around, the redhead let her mouth fall open again. The room was an auditorium, deceptively enormous, and very much like the planetarium she had visited years prior. The woman was distracted from the light show by a voice behind her.

"I have been waiting for you."

Whirling about, she fixed her gaze on the centaur, whose eyes were upon the enchanted ceiling above them. "What? Waiting to meet me? I've only been here a couple of days. You would have come across me eventually," Shaluinn countered as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Your coming was foretold."

The redhead snorted, her disbelief more than evident.

The centaur's gaze never wavered from the twinkling stars and swirling galaxies. "It is written in the stars."

Well he's certainly being cryptic. Must have taken a page from dear old Gandalf, talking in riddles. Muttering to herself, she made to leave.

"The woman of molten fire and emerald will come for the dark one, the man in black."

Callaway stopped short in the doorway, turning back with a narrowed gaze. Several long strides brought her nose-to-chest with Firenze. She looked up at the centaur, suddenly realizing she had little going for her in the way of intimidation. Well, fuck. "What do you know?"

"'Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do and die,'" was the answer.

Shaluinn made no attempt to hide her confusion, stepping back from the taller male. "So I am to die."

"You have a destiny to fulfill, child," the creature countered, his voice soft and soothing, despite its ill portent.

The redhead was swiftly losing any illusion of control she had over the situation. Gathering the scattered shreds of her thoughts, she snapped. "What do you know of destiny? I am but one soldier among many. My role in this war is miniscule, at best. Harry Potter is at the center of this maelstrom, not I."

Firenze dipped his chin, shaking his head in negation. "You misunderstand."

"What is there to misunderstand?" She spread her arms wide, a look of incredulity fixed on her face and a trace of hysteria entering her voice. "I came here with the knowledge that I will never leave. I know I am to die, I already am! There's no mystery there. And now you speak of destiny? What is so complicated about the concept that I am destined to die in this conflict? And what the Sam-hell does some 'man in black' have to do with any of it?"

A voice in the back of her mind began violently rattling its cage and screaming, Snape, you stupid bitch! Dumbledore told you... The American pushed the thought away, staying focused on the centaur.

He was shaking his head more vehemently, his arms moving to slice through the air, reinforcing the negation. "I do not mean you are the key to this war. As you have said, Harry Potter has that distinction. But you do indeed have a role of your own to play, that bears no relation to that." The Advanced Divinations professor entreated the witch, his hands extended.

Callaway dropped her arms against her sides with an audible slap. Desperately wanting to turn and leave, something held her there in the doorway. She lifted her arms across her chest defensively, almost daring Firenze to continue.

Taking advantage of her silence, he did just that. "'What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'"

What the hell is he talking about? If he means Snape, then well, too late for that. Shaluinn snorted, but kept her commentary to herself. When the centaur had nothing further forthcoming, the woman decided to take her leave. Remembering her manners, she put her hands together and bowed. "I am pleased to have met you, Firenze. Good-day to you."

The centaur bent his head. "And to you, Shaluinn Callaway." As the redhead turned to go, he murmured one final thought, not sure why or from whence it came.

"'Out of the strain of the doing,

Into the peace of the done.'"

The barest hitch in the witch's stride indicated she had heard as she departed without a backward glance.

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Severus awoke with a long groan. Flashes of the erotic dream he had enjoyed during the night sped through his waking mind, as he became aware of his position on the bed. He lay on his left side, veritably curled around one of his pillows, both arms clutching the offending cushion to his chest. His right leg was thrown out at an angle, and had he actually been holding the woman from his dream, it would have lain across her calves.

That wasn't what had him growling again. No, the source of his growing annoyance was the sizeable wet spot he could feel beneath his left hip; that and the soreness that made itself known as he shifted away. His now flaccid length felt rather raw. Oh sweet Merlin! Not only did I have a very wet dream, but I must have been humping the mattress too. Bloody hell!

Gingerly, he rolled onto his back, lifting the sheets so they wouldn't brush against his sensitive flesh. The movement caused his head to fall off the side of the bed, his body now angled wrong on the mattress. He let it hang there, bringing his hands up to rub across his face. He admitted that he felt more rested and, well, sated than he had in a very long while.

Only then, as he gazed blearily out the window upside down, did he register the fact that it was still relatively early. From the angle of the grey light filtering through the simple white curtains, he guessed that it couldn't be much later than 9 o'clock. He shifted, wincing as fabric rubbed raw skin. I'll have to take care of that, and soon.

Resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be getting any further rest in his current state, and moving as little as possible, Severus reached one long arm out and swept the offending covers off his body. Aaaaahhhh. He lay there for several beats, relishing the sensation of cool air against his heated epidermis.

Closing his eyes against the discomfort he knew was about to ensue, he flexed his abdominal muscles, launching himself into a seated position. He hissed as lightning shot up from his groin. Best to get this over with quickly. Several shallow breaths later, he shoved off the bed, making his way bowleggedly to the loo.

Any outside observer watching the scene play out would have been rolling on the floor, laughing their ass off. The figure the dreaded Potions master cut, taking short, mincing steps across the bedroom and to the lavatory, was so totally and utterly unlike the intimidating, striding persona he normally nurtured that it was undeniably hilarious. The worst part about it was he was totally aware of just how pathetic he looked. Vulnerability was not something the wizard bore well.

Finally making it to the room across the landing, he caught himself on the sink, resting there for several steadying breaths. Once he was assured his legs wouldn't give way beneath him, he let go of the porcelain and opened the mirrored medicine cabinet above. Picking through the assorted phials, he found the one he was looking for and swiftly downed it, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste.

He set the small bottle aside, again bracing himself against the sink, head hanging down, greasy black locks forming a curtain around his face as he waited for the Healing Draught to complete its job. He reflexively clutched the sides of the porcelain fixture as tremors ran up and down his limbs, his bent over posture and locked-out elbows the only things that kept him upright as the potion worked its magic.

Several shuddering breaths later, he pushed away from the sink. Moving tentatively, he tested out his muscles, gratified when he noticed no residual soreness or pain. Much better. Now, on to other things. The wizard pivoted around and moved to the shower, manipulating the knobs until hot spray rained down from the steel head. He stepped inside, pulling the curtain shut behind him.

Ducking his tall frame beneath the water, he soaked his hair before reaching out to a ledge to retrieve a bar of sandalwood-scented lye soap. He worked the bar over his head and body, swiftly completing his ablutions. He couldn't linger in the shower as, unlike Hogwarts, the heated water was not never-ending. Turning off the water, he stepped out and retrieved a towel from the metal shelf attached to the wall. He ran the coarse cotton over himself and then hung it over the shower rod to dry.

Totally naked, he strode confidently back across the landing to the bedroom. One thing Severus Snape had no illusions about was his own appearance. He knew he was not a handsome man; his beak of a nose, lank hair and crooked, yellowed teeth were nothing to be envied or appreciated. But if you put a paper bag over his head, what was left was not totally unattractive, if you could look beyond the numerous scars marring the surface of his skin, as well as the hideous Dark Mark on his left forearm.

He was not heavily muscled, but rather lean, bordering on skinny. The stress of the last two-plus years had melted off what little fat had settled on his frame over the preceding years, leaving his sinewy muscles well-defined. He had a six-pac that would have been the envy of many a fitness-club attendee. Whipcord tendons wrapped around his limbs, their slender nature belying the strength contained within. Like everything else about him, his appearance was deceptive, lending itself to inaccurate assumptions, just the way he liked it.

Simply put, Severus Snape was comfortable in his own skin. He had no compunction about wandering naked through his home. Nudity was one of the few things he was unselfconscious about. Smirking slightly to himself as he recalled the events of last night's dream, he strode toward the bed. Halting before it, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, immersing himself in the vivid recollection.

Finally having the time and privacy to indulge himself in this manner, he determinedly chased down the sensations evoked by the vision. He lifted his right hand up to glide over the planes of his sparsely haired chest, then down the thickening trail that led to the thatch surrounding his groin. As he wrapped his long fingers around his burgeoning arousal, he was once again gratified that, at least in this, he was better than average. His length and girth were substantial, but not overwhelmingly so. As the few women he'd chosen to lay with had told him, he was just right, and definitely knew just what to do with what he had.

Oh, yes... His face contorted in a grimace as he began stroking himself firmly, his left hand rising to tweak and twist one nipple. Lost in the recollection, he rocked on the balls of his feet, a low moan reverberating through his chest. Every several strokes he would circle the head of his arousal with his thumb, spreading droplets of pre-cum, teasing himself closer to the edge. In his mind, he conjured the vanilla-tinged scent of the mystery woman, her musky flavor lingering on his tongue.

She had been so responsive, so enthusiastic about his ministrations, it was no wonder he had been dry-humping his bed in his sleep. Even now, the vision was so strong, he could feel her body against his, rounded and full, yet unquestionably strong beneath the softness. Snape didn't like his women painfully thin, as was the current fashion. He didn't go for overweight females either. He had heard his preference referred to as "athletic."

He liked curves that hid strong, lean muscles; decidedly feminine in appearance, but deceptively powerful and able to handle the rough play he enjoyed. He had no use for a woman who felt like she would break apart under his hands. Being so picky, it was hard to find females who fit the bill, making his encounters few and far between, even when venturing into the Muggle world. Now if he could find one who had a brain to go with her body, and was a witch as well, he would have uncovered his own, personal Holy Grail.

Resolutely turning his mind away from that line of thinking, he focused again on the feeling of being sheathed in his dream-girl's hot, tight hole. The pace of his right hand quickened, his left hand twisting one nipple almost painfully, as a growl tore loose from his chest. With a grunt, he came forcefully, milky fluid jetting from his pulsing length to coat his hand and abdomen, some falling upon the already soiled bed sheets. Languidly, he worked his length, until he'd wrung every drop from it.

Now undeniably and thoroughly satiated, Snape bent over the bed, reaching beneath the other pillow to retrieve his wand with his clean left hand. He swiftly cast "Evanesco!" on himself and the bed, removing all evidence of his recent and previous enjoyments. Switching his wand to his right hand, he snapped his wrist, the bed immediately making itself up. He twisted around and seated himself on the edge of the bed, next to the chair holding his doffed clothes.

He considered the folded pile for a moment, before reaching in to retrieve his frock coat. He turned and laid the garment out on the bed next to him. Dipping his hand into an inside pocket, he removed a small phial containing approximately two swallows of a violently red-colored, viscous liquid. He silently held the bottle before him, contemplating the task it represented. Ephemeral pain tightened his chest as he considered the meeting where Albus had given him this.

If Albus had been successful in luring the American witch to Hogwarts, Snape would now have a new "handler." She was to be the conduit through which he passed any and all relevant information he gleaned from the enemy's camp. After his apparent betrayal, he would no longer be viewed as a reliable, viable source. To keep the flow of valuable intelligence going after his death, Dumbledore had decided that placing a neutral buffer between Snape and the Order was their best option.

That the Headmaster had recruited an American and a woman for this dangerous and precarious position had not set well with Severus. Unfortunately, he could not argue with Albus' logic that only an outsider would have the indifference and lack of personal entanglements necessary to work effectively with the Potions master. The entire English wizarding community and most of the European community would be up in arms over Dumbledore's apparent murder. Even those who hadn't known Albus personally would never be willing to work with his killer. Enter one redheaded American witch.

The phial Snape held contained two doses of Polyjuice Potion, prepared to turn him into her. The Headmaster had decided that the best way for the turncoat Death Eater to infiltrate the castle and make contact with his handler was by being disguised as her. It was an outrageous enough plan that it actually had the potential to work. Never mind that it required Severus to take a gender-bending dose of Polyjuice, turning himself into a woman whose appearance he had few clues about, other than she was 5'7" with red hair, green eyes and was young.

Damn American standards of measure, he cursed as he tried to convert her height into Metric units, his mind still decidedly dream-addled, finally deciding that she would be significantly shorter than he. If he was going to do this, he would wait until after the transformation to Transfigure suitable attire. In that regard he was fortunate, as this woman apparently shared his penchant for all-black clothing. Albus' eyes had twinkled quite merrily when he related that tidbit of information. All Snape really would have to do was magically tailor his regular clothes.

So there he sat, turning the phial back and forth in the murky mid-morning light, debating his options. He sighed audibly, closing his fist around the small bottle. This is just Albus' final beyond-the-grave attempt at humor. He couldn't have just differentiated Polyjuice using some anonymous male Muggle. No, he insists on turning me into a woman, the ruddy bastard.

Severus blinked back the tears that unwittingly gathered in the corners of his eyes as he thought about the very last time he had looked into his mentor's eyes. Shining there, so different from the familiar twinkle, had been resignation and acceptance. Of all the people he had been forced to kill over the years, this death had been the hardest. The old man, as much as he had bedeviled and annoyed the ever-living daylights out of Snape, had been so much more than just an employer.

Albus had proven the positive father-figure Snape had sorely lacked in his childhood. He had been both friend and confessor, quietly absolving the Potions master of every transgression committed in the name of maintaining his post as a double agent. The Headmaster had never once lost faith in the dark, brooding man, quietly supporting him against all naysayers. And where had that loyalty gotten him? Murdered, by the very wand of the man he had unwaveringly supported. Never mind that Albus had ordered Snape to do it.

Snape growled at himself, disgusted at his own lack of control, moisture falling from his jaw to form wet puddles on his thighs. He hastily wiped the offending tracks from his face, drying his hand off on the blanket beneath him. As good as it felt to release his pent-up emotions, he couldn't afford to make a habit of this. He took in several shuddering breaths, carefully rebuilding the walls and shell that composed his evil, black git persona.

What the Headmaster had never known was that Severus had undertaken a specific tract of study during the course of the year, an alternative to disguise via Polyjuice. He had made the decision shortly after his fateful meeting with Narcissa. It had taken him the better part of the year before he was ready to make his first attempt, done so behind layer after layer of protective wards. And he had succeeded, beyond his every hope and expectation. He had an eminently more useful method of moving about and avoiding detection than any potion or charm could provide.

Severus Snape had become an Animagus.

Determined to keep his new form utterly and totally secret from all, including the Headmaster, he had found few opportunities to sort out maneuvering as an animal. This was how he intended to approach his contact. But before he could consider meeting up with her, he had to make sure that he was sufficiently proficient at handling his altered body. And that meant practicing.

His emotions under control, and a smirk firmly ensconced on his lips, he stood and turned, depositing the phial on top of the covers. He retrieved his wand from where he'd dropped it on the bed and performed a Cleansing Charm on his garments before quickly getting dressed, nimble fingers moving swiftly over the multitude of buttons. Finally, he retrieved an old, worn, teaching robe from his closet and then swept out of the room and down the stairs.

Casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself, he slipped out of the edifice and around the back. A wry smirk twisted his lips as he considered the strange figure he cast. Since that night he had ceased wearing teaching robes, as there was no real point anymore. He wore one now because the billowing fabric helped put him in the right frame of mind to achieve transformation.

Actually looking forward to this exercise, Severus took several deep, calming breaths, centering himself. Firmly focused, he took several running steps before pitching forward and lifting off, his body morphing from that of a human, to a great ebony bird taking to flight. The Potions master's Animagus form was a large, solid-black raven.

Wings beating furiously, he lifted high into the air, rising with an unexpected thermal. He swiftly left behind the somber view of his decrepit childhood home, gliding effortlessly along the air currents, unconsciously heading in the direction of Hogwarts.

TBC...

A/N: Quote acknowledgements:

"Not all who wander are lost." -JRR Tolkien The Fellowship of the Ring

"Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die," -Tennyson Charge of the Light Brigade

"What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

-Gospel of Matthew XVI 26

"Out of the strain of the doing,

Into the peace of the done." -Julia Woodruff Gone