Furtive

Furtive

Disclaimer: Dinna ca' th' polis. Ah huv'nae done nuhin' wrang.

Translation: Scots vernacular – Don't call the police; I've done nothing wrong.

Dark hair flopped forward as the professor shook his head over the dismal inanities he was reading in the homework essays submitted by the Slytherin and Gryffindor combined class. He was certain they weren't all complete idiots. Malfoy was reasonably bright, with some potential, and a couple of the Gryffindors could do better if they stopped chattering en masse and concentrated.

Pushing the parchments aside for a while, he stretched out his long legs, tucked his hands behind his head and tried to recall exactly what it had been like.

~*~

Snape stared gloomily out of the window. The castle turrets were illuminated against the dark, cloud-laden sky, and sheeting rain was briefly highlighted in the spotlights' bright beams. His mind searched for the word Lupin always used to describe this particularly unpleasant Scottish weather.

"Dreich!"

It was a good word, especially when pronounced with Scottish grimness. It conveyed the misery and dislike of the persistent, bleak weather, all in a single syllable ending in that wonderful spitting diphthong, typical of the frugal Scots.

On a good day, Edinburgh was stunning, but on nights like this, even the castle, perched on its impregnable fortress of rock, looked as if it had hunkered down with its collar turned up against the wind slicing in off the North Sea.

Turning his back on the view, Severus let his gaze travel over the room. It hadn't changed much since he and Lupin had shared the flat in their student days at university. The cage to contain the werewolf during his full moon transformations still stood solidly in the corner. Snape rubbed his scalp where it still smarted from hitting his head on the sturdy bars.

The floor was strewn with Lupin's discarded clothing. Somehow, he had never learned the art of tidying up, driving his more fastidious flatmate to distraction. Remembering their many house-keeping discussions, which frequently ended with hexing and huffiness, brought a small smile to Snape's thin lips.

The large couch, where he had spent many a pleasant evening talking and drinking with his mate, still took up a significant space. Severus had been glad of its size on the frequent occasions he had spent the night watching over Lupin in his enclosure, napping in between bouts of stirring the next batch of Wolfsbane and checking on wolf-man. Memories of those painful transformations sent shivers down his spine. At least, with the improvements they had made to the potion, things had become easier.

Since the beginning of this school year, it had become harder for Severus to keep up with the manufacture of Lupin's Wolfsbane, what with his heavy work load at Hogwarts and the increasingly bizarre and dangerous calls made on him by the Dark Lord. He had become concerned as the boy-wonder and megalomaniac's standoff came to an end and the inevitable skirmishes started he may not have time to do it at all. Snape shuddered at the thought of the werewolf going through the gut-wrenching changes without his potion.

Very few people knew they had been friends since their late teens, even fewer realised he and Lupin had gone to university and flatted together just after they left school. So much had changed since then, and with the return of Voldemort, they had less time together nowadays. Snape was busy at Hogwarts, and Lupin was running himself ragged doing whatever it was mad dogs do. He always seemed to be flitting from here to there, never giving Severus a straight answer about his whereabouts.

Tonight, however, they had spent some time talking before Lupin had to leave. Kicking at a pile of long-abandoned clothing lying tangled on the floor, Severus cast his mind back over their recent conversation.

The werewolf had been trying to persuade him to get in contact with the golden trio. What intrigued Severus was Lupin's insistence. He had briefly tried to interest Severus with helping Harry because he was Lily's son, but had very quickly abandoned that line of attack when he saw Snape's antipathy. Weasley scarcely rated a mention. When he had begun talking about Granger, however, the placid wizard's whole demeanour had changed.

The man's expression had softened, and he had talked animatedly about the young witch's intelligent, inquiring mind, her need for support and her soft, brown eyes. It sounded almost as if Lupin had tender feelings for the chit.

Severus swirled the dregs of Firewhisky in his tumbler, watching the warm, tawny-gold liquid whorls. It reminded him of Lupin's eye colour, and after their chat, it also brought to mind Hermione's attentive gaze. Hermione? Listen to him. Merlin, he was being influenced by wolf-boy. He shook his head, dislodging the unwanted thought.

Finishing his drink in a single gulp, Severus picked up his cloak and mask and headed out of the flat. As he clattered down the stone stairs to the communal front door, he cursed Lupin for planting unwelcome ideas in his already overloaded life. He couldn't quite figure out what was going on between the werewolf and the Gryffindor know-it-all, and now that question would niggle away in his subconscious until he solved the puzzle.

He planned to cut down over Waverley Bridge, past Princes Street Gardens and head up to the castle, returning to Hogwarts from the regulated Apparition point under the garrison's ramparts. Starting back uphill, the footfall of Snape's dragonhide boots on the rain-damp cobbles echoed off the old buildings as he strode along the narrow street.

Without warning, a searing sensation in his left forearm stopped him in his tracks; the Dark Lord obviously had different plans for the end of the evening. Casting around for a suitable location, his eye caught on the darkened entrance to a small vennel. Ducking into Fleshmarket Close, Snape checked he was unobserved before Disapparating.

~*~

Icy puddle-water seeped in through the stitching of Draco's pricey shoes, making his toes cold and uncomfortably damp. As he rubbed chilled fingers together, he stamped his feet to keep them warm, instantly regretting the movement when mud slopped over the top of his brogues. Glancing out from his sheltered position close to the school gates, he watched as the falling rain turned to sleet, melting into the saturated ground as soon as it landed.

It was way past curfew, and he really should not have been standing outside in the freezing cold at this time of night. In normal circumstances, he would have sent one of his minions to do this job, but that was no longer possible since Crabbe and Goyle had become a constant, bullying torment with their less than subtle threats and boorish comments. He almost felt some sympathy for the Potter-Weasley duo for their years of persecution at the thugs' hands, but the feeling passed rapidly.

The thin blond blew onto his hands, the warm breath permeating his quality wool gloves and relieving the penetrating chill from his slim fingers for a brief moment. He disliked the wet-sheep odour starting to rise from his previously pristine gloves. Sniffing with disdain, he ran a damp, cashmere-clad finger under his dripping nose.

It had been Looney Lovegood's suggestion he should look out for his ex-head of house, and he wondered for the hundredth time why he had listened to her madcap ramblings. Why wasn't she out here in the sleety rain herself, if she was so worried about Snape? Oh, that's right, she had a cosy bed to go to. Draco's teeth chattered as he ground them together in anger. Well, he had a warm bed to retire to as well, just as soon as he'd made sure Severus was home safely.

Malfoy didn't like admitting he was becoming increasingly concerned the longer he waited, convinced the later it got, the more likely the man returning to the Apparition point would need his help. Maybe, he should go back to the castle and rouse one of the staff to take over his vigil. No, it was bad enough Draco waiting for him. The thought of what Snape might do if he found McGonagall or Filch hanging around in the dark made the young wizard snigger at the possibility of a colourful hexing.

His laugh was cut short by a loud crack, followed by muffled swearing, an irregular, dragging sound and a squelching slap of something heavy falling in the mud.

Then, silence.

Draco's heart plummeted.

Taking a deep breath, he crept from his hiding place to find out what had happened.

~*~

Two Gryffindors were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Longbottom with a hand resting gently on the gargoyle and Ginny pacing impatiently to and fro, when Luna waltzed up.

Neville watched her and tried to suppress a smile as Luna tripped over her own feet in her twirling dance. Stumbling into a suit of armour, she was caught in its burnished, metal arms before being stood back on her feet. A steel gauntlet patted her bottom, sending her on her way. Neville could have sworn the armour-faced guard smiled at her indulgently.

"Does she have to act like a complete ninny all the time?" Ginny muttered in irritation.

"How much is an act?" Neville countered.

"Thanks for waiting for me, you two. I had to have a word with the Dottled Bigging before I came along. Now, what were we supposed to be doing? Oh, yes! Uncle Phin! We'll have to be quick because I think the ophidians are coming."

"We couldn't get in without you." Ginny rolled her eyes and made a pinch-mouthed face as she followed the blonde witch up the curving staircase to the headmaster's office. "And what do we care about obsidian?"

"You're being funny, Gin," Luna replied, giggling as she led the way into the room. Stopping, she turned to the redhead with the most serious expression Ginny had ever seen on her normally calm features. "They're ophidians, not obsidian! Even the blackest snakes deserve respect. You really should care about them, Ginevra. I do." Then, ducking her head, as if she had exposed too much, Luna turned away.

"Snakes?" Ginny mouthed to Neville, whose dark hair flopped over his eyes as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you mean Nagini, Luna?" he asked.

"That, too," she answered cryptically, shifting her gaze to the hanging portraits and seeking out the austere figure of Phineas Nigellus Black. "Uncle Phin! How are things?" Her face broke into a cheery smile again.

"Dismal and damp, I regret to say."

Neville looked perplexed as he returned his attention to searching the office for their objective. Trying to think clearly with Luna around was not always easy, he decided, brushing his hair back with his hand, as if removing the obstruction to his vision would help.

"Can we concentrate on what we're doing now, Ginny?"

Touching the sleeve of the girl at his side, he drew her mind back to the task at hand. The confusion on her face melted away as she focused on scouring the room, looking under chairs, desk and coffee table, running her hand along the underside of shelves in the bookcase.

"For goodness sake, Gryffindors," Phineas Nigellus grumbled. "You would be pathetic at 'Hunt the Grindylow'. Do you really believe what you seek is concealed? It's hidden in plain sight."

"Of course." Neville nodded. His eyes ran over the room again, looking at the obvious, before settling back on the coffee table set in front of the fire and flanked by comfortable couches. "There!"

Eagerly, he swept a scattering of coffee mugs and scrolls from the table top. Below the layer of everyday detritus, he exposed an elaborately engraved sword, visible through a glazed panel, nestling on plush, crimson cushion.

"This is my job," Ginny murmured, running slim fingers carefully around the edges of the wood, following the grain and touching every knot and whorl. There were no locks, hinges or obvious means for opening the sealed depository. She cursed under her breath.

Longbottom shuffled nervously, a small bead of sweat appearing on his forehead. "Everything all right, Gin?"

"Bill assured me this would be obvious," she muttered to herself, "but I can't find a way to get in."

"How long have we got before the headmaster returns, Luna?"

"Hmm?"

Lovegood's vacuous look did not inspire confidence in Neville. Why did she always appear so vague when he knew it was not the case? "When will Snape be back?"

"I'm not sure, Neville," Luna replied with an apologetic smile. "Do you know, Uncle Phin?"

"Soon."

The answer was curt and unhelpful, sending Neville's anxiety levels soaring. Moist patches appeared in his armpits, and he wiped sweating hands down the front of his robe.

"Can I help in any way, Ginny?"

His inquiry was met by a frown and a subtle body shift as Ginny positioned herself between him and the sword's resting place.

"I'll take that as a no," Neville murmured, trying to glance around Weasley to assess her progress.

~*~

"Hermione, love, wake up."

A gentle shake stirred her from her nap. Mumbling a negative response, she burrowed in closer to the warmth, savouring his pleasant, masculine smell.

"Come on, Hermione. I have to go home now."

"Why?"

"Because, much as I'd love to, I can't stay here all night with you. My buttocks will freeze to the ground if I sit here any longer. In fact," he said, poking at a numb butt-cheek, "I think they already have."

"Don't go, professor; you're so warm and toasty." She wrapped her arms around his waist, attempting to delay his departure. Feeling a low chuckle reverberating through his chest to her ear, she smiled drowsily.

"I'm not your professor any more, young lady," he growled, "but I'll still punish you if you don't get moving." He gave her a quick one-armed hug before unwrapping his dry cloak from round her shoulders and peeling her clinging arms from his torso. "Come on, lass. You have some boys to look after, and I have a wife to go home to."

His sigh was very small, but easily audible to Hermione at such close range.

"Why did you marry her, Remus?"

As he stared into the distance without answering, Hermione thought she had pushed him too far. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. She patted his knee and moved away from him.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

A large, warm hand caught hers, preventing her from moving further.

"Understand this, Hermione, I am married to Tonks, and we'll be a family soon, but my life is complicated. She and I..." He paused, looking down at the lichen-encrusted rocks beneath his feet. His eyes held unfathomable sorrow when he returned his tawny gaze to the young witch's face. "We both know our time is limited. You are so young and vivacious, and I know you will survive this war, but Tonks and I... We..."

A soft touch on his lips stilled his words. "No. You don't know what will happen."

An exhalation of breath flowed lightly over her palm as he wrapped her small hand in his, kissing the fingertip before drawing it away from his mouth.

"I do know, Hermione. That's the problem. I know what's going to happen to me, and I know what's going to happen to Severus, and to you, and to Harry, and... and..." He let her hand drop as he waved his arms in ever expanding circles in the air. "And it's all too bloody much at times. That's why I come to see you, for a bit of peace, to ease my heartache, because I know you're going to be all right in the end." His voice quivered, and a slow tear slid down his gaunt cheek.

She hugged him to her, wiping away the damp saltiness from his face with the hanky he had given her earlier, and he could not resist pulling her in to a crushing hug.

"I need you to be strong, Hermione, and I need your help."

"I'll do anything for you, Remus."

Releasing her from his embrace and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he escorted her back closer to the tent as he told her what he wanted her to do.

A/N: Thanks go to sunny33, without whose aid this would be a morass of ridiculous punctuation.

Translation:

Dreich – Scots – dreary, bleak.

Vennel – Scots – narrow lane, alley.