Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 32

Chapter 32:

"Oh no, we can't have that," Dumbledore said, looking at the broken glass and spilled brandy on the floor. With one pass of his hand, the spill disappeared, and the glass reformed itself and jumped back up into her hand. Dumbledore picked up the crystal decanter and refilled it.

"Thank you," she murmured dully. Then she downed her drink in one long swallow before turning back to him.

"You think he wants to hear it," she repeated incredulously. Another woman in her situation might have denied her feelings for Professor Snape completely, or tried to hide behind pretended indifference, but that never occurred to Emily for a second.

"Oh yes, without a doubt," Dumbledore said, nodding agreeably. "I think he's been longing to hear some tender words from you for quite some time, truthfully."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless. "Well... well, he's got a hell of a way of showing it, then!" she spluttered. "His entire attitude toward me is one enormous example of Go away and leave me alone."

"I've always seen it as more of an attitude of – I insist on being respected, I'll keep my own counsel, and I don't suffer fools gladly," her companion said. "Come now, he isn't that unapproachable. There are subjects he enjoys talking about, believe it or not, like all aspects of defence against Dark magic, the natural sciences, theoretical potions-making, poison antidotes – he's one of England's leading authorities on poison antidotes, did you know that? He's also a fierce chess player – you should see him go up against Minerva, it's like watching the Battle of Agincourt."

Emily imagined Professor Snape and Minerva McGonagall facing each other over a chessboard like rival generals – an amusing image, to be sure. Despite herself, she chuckled a little, just picturing it. Dumbledore smiled.

"He's also always up for a discussion of the highlights of Slytherin House's last Quidditch season, and how all those prats in Gryffindor would benefit from a good old-fashioned spanking," the Headmaster continued. "And this year, he's become quite fascinated by Faery magic in general, and anything to do with you, in particular."

"Sir... " She got up from her chair and was suddenly very interested in the books on the mantelpiece, averting her face in the hope of not being seen blushing furiously. "I find it hard to believe that he has anything to say about me at all. Really, Albus, I'm not a little girl who's going to believe that the biggest bully in school only pulls my pigtails because he fancies me."

"Severus was never a bully when he was in school, actually," Dumbledore said, with a thoughtful sip of brandy. "He was much more the sort who spent hours in the library next to a tremendous pile of books. As I recall, he had one or two extremely close friends, to whom he was unfailingly loyal. But unfortunately he was very much the sort of earnest pedant who often becomes a target for the bullies of his generation, alas."

Emily was still unable to face him, unable to accept what he was saying. "If he was ever to mention my name, it's probably just to criticise me. He looks down on everything from my tradition of magic to my teaching style to the way I dress, for pity's sake."

"Yes, Severus is quite capable of criticising his colleagues when he thinks their behaviour is lacking, but he has never said one disparaging word about you in my hearing, Emily. That alone puts you on different footing than any of his other colleagues. And – " A note of gentle reproach crept into the tactful, humorous tone of his voice – "I daresay that as far as any pigtail-pulling goes, my dear, you manage to tug his pigtails as often as he does yours."

She only blushed all the paler, and began pacing on the hearth rug, her hands working before her in agitation. "Sir... truthfully, you've not really heard most of what's gone on between him and me, not really. I've given him the sort of training most of my squires back at home would kill for, I've kept him out of a burning building, I've risked my own safety to bring him information, I've gotten myself beaten to a pulp for the Order, and just lately I've saved his hide from a lot of Death Eater flunkies – and you know what he does afterward? Like to guess?"

"I can't imagine. Do tell me," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

The pacing came to a dead halt in front of him. "At the worst, he Stuns me and makes me come tell you what a bad girl I've been, and at best, he bids me a very perfunctory good evening, and leaves. Honestly, sir – what does one need to do to impress that bloke?"

To her great surprise, at the end of this dramatic rant, the sublimely dignified Headmaster just burst out laughing till the tears came to his eyes. "Oh, Emily – you're priceless, my dear, absolutely priceless." He brought a starched lavender handkerchief out of one of his voluminous sleeves and dabbed at his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles. "But – you seem to have missed the fact that you impressed him simply by existing. Can't you see that?"

All the bravado went out of her stance; she stared at the rug in front of Dumbledore's boots, crestfallen. "No, I don't see that. Not at all. I've no idea why you believe you see that."

"Well, I've known him since he was ten years old, so I suppose I do have the advantage on you as far as experience," Dumbledore said, with a reassuring smile. "He's never been a sentimental man – romantic words don't come naturally to him. But can you not see the effect you have on him?"

"I have no effect on him at all, Albus. He enjoys the company of Draco Malfoy's pet dog more than he does mine," she said, sounding hurt.

"But, Emily... excepting myself, he talks to you more than he does to anyone else," he told her gently.

She stared at him, amazed. "Does he?" she asked, her voice almost too faint to be heard.

"Ah, my dear, you don't know how you must appear to him." Noting her empty brandy glass, he took up the decanter on the table beside him, got up, and refilled it. "You grew up in Gwydion's Court – you know any number of women considered to be your equal in beauty. You've always had the bravest mother, and the most brilliant father – parents who might make anyone feel a bit overshadowed. Am I right?"

Emily sighed. "I've never thought my mention in the history books would ever surpass what's already written about my mother, no," she admitted. "Nor have I ever imagined I'll write as many history books as my father." She picked up her glass and took another healthy swallow. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He took his seat again, refreshing his own glass as well. "But here, when you walk into a room, you instantly command attention. You may think of yourself as just Emily – not a Queen, not a First Knight, not the King's Historian – but Severus sees a beautiful and talented woman any man would find desirable. And he won't declare his intentions if he thinks he will be rejected, if he thinks he will make a fool of himself. Despite my ongoing efforts to assure him of his great talent and personal worth, Severus believes that his dignity is all that he has, and he won't risk it lightly."

Emily took the seat opposite him again, holding her glass tightly, as though afraid of letting it smash again. "Well, if he's so terrified of being rejected that he never risks anything in his relationships with other people, he's going to end by always being alone," she pointed out. "Sure, he'll be safe from embarrassment, but he'll never have friends, or a lover, or a wife, or anyone who loves him, any companionship at all – that's no way to live."

"Exactly," Dumbledore replied, nodding. "I don't think Severus allows himself to dwell on what is missing in his life, most of the time – which is why your presence unnerves him so much. I think you remind him of what he would have liked to have, and it upsets him. He's terribly reticent about his past, so I don't know if he's ever been in love before, but some of what he's said makes me think he was once, and it ended badly. But certainly a young man who spent his formative years in such company as Severus did may not have had the opportunity to meet a woman capable of caring for him the way he deserves."

"Yes, I can imagine that dating might not have been his top priority, in his first youth," she said. It seemed as though Professor Snape had never told Albus about this Bella person, and she wasn't about to supply the woman's name or any specifics on the matter. Emily thought about something Snape had said to her on the turrets all those weeks ago – Dumbledore assisted me in striking a plea bargain agreement with the previous Minister of Magic. I was twenty years old at the time. Again it struck her as to how very young he had been during the first Voldemort conflict – and certainly Death Eater meetings were no place to meet a faithful, loving woman.

"And you... my dear, you have to realise that you are an enigma writ large, for someone like him," the Headmaster said, winking at her. "He doesn't have the intuition into your behaviour and motivations that a countryman of yours would have. I hate to say it, but like you said so long ago, the Fae can be awfully mysterious at times, to mere humans."

Emily blushed all the worse, recalling that yes, Professor Snape was indeed a human, not another Faerie, with all the lack of familiarity with her own culture that entailed. He was starting to use her people's magic with such facility that the distinction between them had blurred somewhat for her, in the same manner that she sometimes forgot her own father was a human wizard because he spoke and wrote both dialects of Old Arcadian more fluently than she did. "Even so, the Professor certainly has a talent for our magic. Has he mentioned to you that he's turned out to be another natural adept, like my father?"

"Yes, he told me the morning after you told him – it came as a complete surprise to him. He scarcely knew what to make of it, but nonetheless, I think he was very pleased," her companion said, smiling broadly. "So, my dear... you're already well aware that he's no ordinary man. I can also assure you that while it's true he can be argumentative, he would never have devoted so much time to arguing with you if you weren't a worthy opponent. The only people Severus truly respects are those who can capably defend their opinions when questioned, and you're very like him that way. I've known since you were a tiny girl sitting on your father's knee that the man you married would need to have the intelligence, and the energy, to stand up to you."

She chuckled faintly – it was indeed true that as a child, she had been what Gwydion, Dahlia, and her father called precocious, her mother called stubborn, and the Robinett family had called a spoiled, willful little minx. "Perhaps I've heard myself described that way... once or twice, but in a friend, in a real companion, one wants an equal, not a sycophant, or a tyrant that has to be flattered and placated," she pointed out.

"I couldn't agree more." Dumbledore set his brandy glass down and faced her very simply and seriously. "Now, please, Emily, you have to promise me you'll never tell him I told you this, because I know he won't appreciate it – but you see, for all his well-deserved confidence in his intellectual abilities, Severus has never thought of himself as attractive to women. As such – he will never know how you feel about him if you don't tell him. He will never even imagine that you cared for him if you don't tell him."

Emily averted her eyes, again blushing horribly. "That's the thing, sir... I have no idea how to tell him so in a way that will actually make him want to listen to it," she said. "Nothing I say ever has any effect on him – at best, he just doesn't want to hear it, and at worst, he gets furious with me."

"Yes, he does come off that way, doesn't he." Dumbledore laughed softly, shaking his head. "If you'll allow me to give you some advice, my friend... perhaps more persistence on your part could be in order. Perhaps you could stop running off the first time he scowls. Don't let the first sarcastic remark he makes throw you. Let him know that you're seeking him out because you enjoy his company, rather than just letting circumstances throw you together. But remember – if you pursue him, he will not immediately believe that you are sincere, and you must convince him that your intentions are honourable. All of his life, he's been much more accustomed to cruelty and betrayal than to affection and loyalty, and it's made him a terrible pessimist when it comes to the motivations of others. And I don't mean to scold, but you haven't exactly given him cause to have complete confidence in you, you know."

"I know I haven't," she said, her voice thickening. "Do you think he'll ever forgive me for... being involved with Lucius?" She held out her empty brandy glass. "Is there any more of that?"

"He already has forgiven you – or at the very least, he refuses to judge you too harshly for it," Dumbledore said quietly, taking the glass from her. "I knew from the way he defended you to Sirius, and tried so hard to talk me out of accepting your help, the night the Fusilier was destroyed." He thoughtfully refilled her glass, and put it back into her hand. "Severus knows exactly what it is to come under Malfoy's influence – without his cousin's persuasions, I sincerely believe that your colleague may never have been a Death Eater himself. Severus may be the one person you know who could best sympathise with you, as far as relying on Lucius Malfoy's promises to one's own detriment. If anything, he realises that he could have put an end to that involvement at any time by telling you the whole truth about Malfoy, and regrets that he didn't."

"But Albus... " She downed the calvados in one swallow, and set the glass aside. Then she paused, opened her mouth to speak once or twice, but seemed unable to find words to fit what she wanted to say. Finally she got up, and went to lean against the windowsill.

"Yes, what is it?" There was a rustle of velvet robes beside her, and Dumbledore joined her at the window. The moonlit lake below them glimmered gently on the horizon.

When she spoke again, her voice was only a soft, halting whisper. "Back when I got married, you see... I knew Jayson thought he was in love with me. He'd been following me around since we were children, and he'd always been so jealous of all my other friends. You remember how he always hated Bill Blake because Bill was my favourite companion."

"Yes, I remember. Luckily William Blake isn't easily intimidated."

"Yes, that's Bill for you," Emily said, lowering her chin onto her hand. "But I knew Jayson would be jealous because I loved someone else. I knew he would hate Dorien because I married him... but I didn't think Jayson was capable of murder. I had no idea he would get so angry, he hadn't done anything to indicate that he would be able to... that he would ever... "

"Emily – did you honestly expect yourself to be able to predict Robinett's criminal behaviour?" Dumbledore asked her, thunderstruck. "You can't honestly expect yourself to somehow be able to do what the greatest criminologists and behavioural psychologists in this world cannot do. Are you an oracle, who can infallibly predict treachery and murderous intent?"

"Well no, of course not, no one can do that," she said softly.

"Jayson Robinett acted the way he did because he was a spoiled, lawless, jealous, and selfish wretch – not because of anything you did," Dumbledore averred stoutly. "Some women might enjoy playing the leanan, tormenting such a willing victim for their own amusement, but Gwydion himself has told me that you only ever tried to be a friend to him since you were a child, and by all reports, you had always made your refusal clear. It has never been any fault of yours that he persisted beyond an honest No."

"But, Albus... you see, in this case, I do know Lucius to be jealous, evil, and a murderer. He already hates Severus on just the suspicion that he might have left Voldemort's service. What would Lucius do if it came out that I left him because I preferred Severus to him? What if that's all it takes to finally make him seek his life in earnest? What if I only get him killed?" Her head inclined miserably into her hand. "I don't think I could live with myself, knowing that not one but two good men had died because they had the misfortune to take up with me."

"I don't know how you can say that, when he would be dead twice over without you," Dumbledore pointed out. "Both Severus and Molly would have been murdered, Arthur would have lost his wife, and the Weasley children left motherless, if you had not come here this year. You worry that you would endanger his life – but as far as I can see, you're the one person who has most capably preserved him from harm this year."

"Just doing my job," she murmured.

Dumbledore smiled, fondly pressing Emily's hand. "There are those women who never meet a man worthy of their love, and you've been lucky enough to meet two of them. I know that it was your fondest hope to simply be celebrating your sixth wedding anniversary at home about this time, but alas, we must live the life that we have, not the life that we would like to have had. Did you and Dorien ever discuss what you would do if one of you was killed in battle?" he asked, very gently indeed.

"Well yes, of course, we were both soldiers... you know what's funny – I told him not long after we were married that if I ever fell in battle, he was to find someone else to love and get married again with my blessing. I didn't just tell him it was all right with me – I urged him to do it. You know how intense he was... I couldn't stand the idea of him isolating himself from everyone and pining for me, because he would, you know, he was like that."

"Yes, I remember."

"Little did I know. At the time I thought it would be more likely that I would die suddenly than he would – you know the mortality rate for ground troops is higher than it is for archers... didn't know anything, did I... " A tear slipped down her cheek, and Dumbledore handed her his lavender handkerchief.

"Thank you." She turned aside and dabbed at her face. "Albus... while Dorien was alive, sometimes I think that we were so glad to be together that we made the gods jealous – we tempted fate. Maybe mortal creatures just weren't meant to feel like that. Maybe that kind of love is reserved for the gods, only."

"Emily. Surely you can't believe that," Dumbledore chided her gently. "Don't tell me you've given up entirely on happiness. I don't believe for an instant that the Lady of the Worlds would envy the joy of two of her faithful knights in loving each other – and likewise, I don't think you should let anything get in your way now. I sincerely believe that you could make Severus happier than he has ever been in his life, and that he would welcome the chance to do the same for you. Please don't tell me you're going to leave here without talking to him. Really talking to him."

Emily took a deep breath, composing herself. "Why... why do you think he wants to hear... why do you think he really wants to talk to me?"

Dumbledore just laughed, shaking his white head. "Because of the way he can't ignore you, even when he would like to. Because no matter what happens, his first thought is always devoted to how he can best protect you and keep you from harm, even though he knows very well that you can take care of yourself. And because he's never met a woman who could match him point for point, barb for barb, in a debate – well, except for Minerva, but she's almost old enough to be his grandmother."

The idea of the Heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor cosily paired up together made Emily laugh for a second, but it was definitely true that of all the teachers at Hogwarts, Snape's eternal adversary Minerva McGonagall was the one Snape seemed to respect most, other than Dumbledore. "I... I do see your point, sir," she said quietly.

Her companion smiled. "Not only that, but on the day you and Mrs. Weasley were due to have your confrontation, I watched him pace the floor and stare at the clock and generally work himself into a frenzy of worry waiting for you to come back. And when you did return... everyone else was momentarily paralysed with shock, but when you started to stumble, he was at your side in an instant, both to comfort you and slay all comers – I had never seen him so fiercely protective of anyone before. In my opinion, the way he treated you that day will always be one of his finest moments, when he again reinforced my opinion of all his best qualities."

"Yes, I was just thinking the other day that Professor Snape is a good man indeed to have about in a crisis," Emily murmured to herself.

"Oh yes, my dear, he is. The best," Dumbledore averred, patting her hand again. "I would trust Severus with my life."

Emily paused a long moment, gazing at the lake, her long uncertainty warring with the reassurances Dumbledore had given her that evening. Then she made a silent resolution – and she turned back to her companion.

"So... what you're saying, Albus, is that my colleague, Severus Snape, the spy, the apostate Death Eater, the teacher of whom every student at Hogwarts is absolutely terrified – is terribly shy when it comes to women, and if I want him, I need to just knock myself out pursuing him, because otherwise he won't even know I'm interested?"

Dumbledore looked up at her, his face alight – he really looked perhaps a heartbeat away from jumping up and down and clapping his hands like a little boy. "YES," he cried. "Yes, that's it exactly."

"Well... " Emily faced Dumbledore almost bashfully. "Does he have a favourite restaurant?" she asked.

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After his cathartic late-night talk with Emily, Dumbledore had his usual cup of bedtime cocoa, then slept untroubled all night. The next morning, he got up, hummed his usual song while performing his usual morning ablutions, combed his long white hair and beard, dressed in his usual purple robes, had a pleasant breakfast in his sitting room, and then swept purposefully down to the Slytherin dungeons.

He knocked once on the door of Professor Snape's office, heard a curt Enter from within. Dumbledore went inside, finding Snape standing at the blackboard at the front of the room in shirtsleeves. He was scratching down some highly complex chemical diagrams, his black brows furrowed in concentration.

"Severus! Up early, as usual, I see."

"Good morning, sir," Snape said, glancing morosely over his shoulder as the Headmaster came in. "So, what brings you all the way down here? Have you heard anything new about the Death Eater situation?"

"No, nothing new at the moment – I simply wanted to ask you a question. I've been terribly curious about something since last year, and I was wondering if you could perhaps clear it up for me."

"Yes, what is it?" Snape asked impatiently, his eyes still on his work.

"Why doesn't Emily know how you feel about her?"

Snape froze, his hand arresting in the middle of writing a formula on the blackboard.

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After a long, immobile moment, Snape lowered the chalk and turned in profile toward Dumbledore.

"Albus... you know that I respect you more than anyone else alive," he said slowly. "But at this moment, you are so far out of line that I don't see how you're ever going to get back in again, unless perhaps you immediately turn around, walk out of here, and never speak to me about this matter again."

"It's not escaped my attention that you can't look at anything else when she's near you, my friend." Dumbledore settled himself on one of the tall stools next to Snape's worktable, as though getting cosy for a long chat. "On the day I introduced the two of you, there hadn't been that much electricity in the teacher's lounge since Filius demonstrated the St. Elmo's Fire Charm. You've had her undivided attention ever since – "

"I most certainly have not!" Snape snapped, hurling his chalk aside and turning on him in a fury. "She's ignored me from the very first – she makes an art out of ignoring me. And I cannot even begin to describe how eloquently that woman has expressed her contempt for me at every opportunity."

"At every opportunity?" the Headmaster asked mildly.

Snape's gaze was drawn to a silver object in Dumbledore's hand, that he was idly spinning on the end of a chain – Professor Swain's Amulet of Protection, which had been sitting on Snape's worktable for the last few days. He had neglected to give it back to her following the London attack, and she had not asked for it.

Snape paused, perhaps even reddened slightly – then turned back toward the blackboard. "That, sir, came about because she is a knight, and has her own oaths to uphold. It had nothing to do with me personally – she said so herself."

"Did she come out and tell you it wasn't personal, or did she make a conditional statement to that effect? To the Fae, there are worlds of difference between the two. Did she tell you not to assume that it was personal? Or that she's saved people's lives on other occasions, or that's what a Fianna knight does... ?" Dumbledore asked gently. "She's a proud woman, Severus – did you give her the chance to admit why she rescued you that night without sacrificing her dignity?"

Snape remained silent, his face averted, his spine stiffly straight.

"Do you really think she wouldn't see her oaths as extending to someone she was fond of, personally? And did you never hope that it meant something more than just a knight's duty toward others?" Dumbledore asked.

When Snape finally answered, his voice was only a toneless whisper. "Good lord, Albus, were you really so bored with the events of this year that you actually wanted to listen to me sawing on about some absurd unrequited fancy for a woman? Did you not quite have enough to do already?"

"I... do not think that you should worry overmuch about your regard going unrequited, my friend," Dumbledore said quietly.

Snape laughed bitterly. "Sir, this is not to cast aspersions on your... legendary understanding of the human character, but I can't recall ever seeing overmuch in that woman's behaviour to indicate that she holds me in any higher regard than the lowliest creeping flobberworm."

"When you examine your own behaviour, can you honestly say that you've given her any cause to believe that you prefer her to the lowliest creeping flobberworm? I hate to say this, Severus... but you can be just a bit intimidating, you know, by spells," Dumbledore said. Peripherally, Snape could see the Headmaster smiling at him with fond reproach.

"To students in my classes, perhaps – and they still have no problem disrespecting me," Snape growled. "I've overheard them saying, 'Do you think I've got nothing better to do in Potions class than listen to Snape?' Don't ask me if I'm for or against re-instituting thorough beatings to misbehaving students – you won't like the answer."

"Professor Swain isn't a student in one of your classes. In matters of her nation's security, she offers counsel to a king. Can you expect someone like that to kneel, and kiss your hand?" Dumbledore asked, with great gentleness.

"I can't imagine her doing that with anyone," Snape muttered.

"And there are any number of reasons why she might feel her affections for you are unwelcome. You can't have missed the way some people stare, and whisper, and sometimes make unkind remarks at the sight of her. The Fae protect their secrets well, you know – they became experts at blending in, hiding their true nature, rather than brave the trials of integration into Wizarding society. Only occasionally will you find one of the Fae willing to show her true face on the street amongst us, let alone one willing to teach her people's magic to us."

"Yes, I'm well aware that there are anti-Fae bigots out there – I'm related to some of them," Snape growled. "I know that prejudice exists in our world. But why on Earth would she think that of me? When have I ever – do you have any idea how much work I've put in to trying to help them, this year? It's a pattern – I try to help ease the sufferings of lycanthropes, and the only one of them I know still holds me in contempt. I try to ameliorate the Fae's suffering from iron burns, and that woman barely even notices. There's no gratitude anywhere."

"Severus – she does appreciate what you and your colleagues have done for her people, very much, and while you may not believe it, so does Remus."

Snape only gave a curt, disbelieving laugh, and turned back to his diagramming.

"As for her assumptions about your attitudes, remember – you are the son of a pure-blooded family, and you associated with people like Druella Black and the Malfoys. You do so in order to gather information from them, certainly, but Emily didn't realise that at first. Some wizards can be quite openly hostile to her people... including, sadly, some members of her own family. Once Buckminster Swain made it known that he intended to remain in the Faerielands permanently, his first wife's children made it quite clear to Emily that she was to consider herself a Swain in name only."

"Yes, I heard," Snape said, scowling. "Some vicious gossip of a woman mentioned it at one of the Malfoys' parties. But it's rather unfair of her to tar me with the same brush as the Druella Blacks and Felina Rosiers of the world, isn't it – she should of course fancy herself an expert on my social attitudes because she's spent so much bloody time talking to me about them, after all."

Dumbledore chuckled. "It is not in the nature of the Fair Folk to be too forthright and open, my friend, especially in the face of hostility. That is why they have never bothered to integrate into our society, but instead hide within it. Emily prefers to remain a cipher, unknown by all, than be rejected for being who she truly is. She believes that there is more safety in keeping her feelings private. Can you not sympathise with her in that?"

"You're trying to draw some parallel between that tendency in her and the same one in me, aren't you," Snape said with a bitter little laugh. "And I'm supposed to find that very telling and romantic, aren't I."

"I think that is very telling and romantic," Dumbledore said.

"You would, Albus," Snape said, shaking his head. "The woman is utterly impossible, always has been, always will be."

"Yes, I know. Totally irrepressible and indomitable, just like all her people – she's the sort who would prank the hangman on the way to the gallows. That's the way they have always been, throughout history – so you have to realise, my friend, that she has it within her to elude you, and she'll do it, if you let her."

"It's in her nature to elude me no matter what I do," Snape snapped. "I think she positively enjoys it."

"Yet, she stood in front of a hundred people and plainly stated that Arcadians tend to be secretive due to their magical heritage. That had to be unnerving for her. Can you expect someone, anyone, to spontaneously throw off every influence of the culture in which she was raised a moment after she makes your acquaintance?"

"Well, no, of course not," the younger man growled. "But why does she have to be so damn difficult, all the time? Why does she look at me like I've slapped her every time I ask her a question?"

Dumbledore looked at his friend with compassion – no father looking upon a son could have conveyed more empathy. "Severus, remember that her magic is dependent on keeping a secret – a wariness about allowing herself to be known is ingrained into her very character. Of course she isn't going to respond well to direct questions. When one openly demands information of a Faerie, it feels abrupt, brutal, offensive – and they respond with evasion. And they are extremely good at evasion."

"Yes, I've noticed," Snape said sourly.

"If one wants an answer from one of the Fae, one must first acknowledge her prerogative for keeping her secrets. Ask her if she is willing to divulge what you want to know. Ask her if she would be amenable to telling you, or if circumstances allow her to tell you. Better yet, make a leading statement and see if she expounds on the topic introduced of her own volition. Or, confide in her yourself first – to them, that is a great offering of trust. You can't demand anything of them, Severus, they won't allow it – but they respect every bit of yourself that you offer to them. If you divulge anything personal to her, she will value that most highly, and value the trust you have shown even more highly. That is why no one will ever listen to your confidences, and keep your secrets, with more care or consideration than one of the Fair Folk."

"Except to mine," Snape said quietly. "I doubt that she'd listen or care about anything I had to say if her life depended on it. Because no one ever listens to me – even when it's in their best interest to do so. That does seem to be the trend 'round here, you know."

"And a regrettable condition that is, too, my friend," Dumbledore said. "For my own part, I don't know where I'd be without your counsel."

"You're the only one who ever values my opinion on anything, Albus. It's been that way for almost fourteen years, and I don't see that ever changing."

"Well... I do see that changing in this situation, but only if you undertake to change it. But I have to remind you – Emily doesn't have much time left with us. At midnight on September twenty-third, she will have fulfilled the assignment Gwydion gave her, and thus her promise to me. If she chooses to leave here – and at this point, she probably will – that will be the last you will ever see of her."

"But Albus... " Again, Snape half-turned toward Dumbledore, perhaps looking a touch wounded, just for an instant. "She... the night I showed her the Mark, told her that I had been a Death Eater... you didn't see the way she reacted. She was horrified. She was revolted by me."

"Are you sure that it wasn't the Mark itself that she found so revolting?" his companion countered. "And if she was as horrified by you as you say, then why did she agree to accompany you to the meeting in Endustree Alley?"

"Again, that probably falls under the criteria of that's just what a knight does," Snape said grimly. "She'll always look down on me for what I was, won't she – any respectable woman would. The Death Eaters tried to kill her father – how could she possibly care for someone who used to be one of them?" He then stood back and surveyed the elaborate chemical diagrams on the blackboard – and then noticed that he had made any number of absent-minded mistakes in the last fifteen minutes. He threw the chalk aside, and rendered the board clean again with a pass of his hand, an inaudible word, and a harassed scowl.

"By the same token, how could she not feel respect and admiration for the man who decided to cure iron burns in his spare time?" Dumbledore pointed out, raising his own sinister white eyebrow. "She might have looked down on you before, but you have proven your worth to her hundredfold since then. Think of this – three of the people she has loved the most are an aged and decidedly eccentric king, a discredited politician, and a soldier with a long disciplinary record, my friend. Her father has made catastrophic miscalculations in judgment, but she remains one of his most ardent apologists, and always has been. A squire under her command once defied her direct instructions, in order to save the life of a friend – and she married him anyway. I think you'll find your colleague to be far less judgmental than you imagine her to be – and while she may not love wisely at times, no one could deny that she loves well."

Snape stood in front of the empty blackboard, motionless.

"What makes you so certain that I shouldn't worry about... matters going unrequited?" he asked, very softly.

"Call it a hundred and fifty-four years of intuition, my friend," Dumbledore said. "I saw the way she reacted to you when you were introduced, and the way she talked to you all year. She wouldn't have bothered with you for an instant if she thought you to be merely a crank, or a fool. When I told her about Malfoy's last invitation to you, she volunteered to escort you before I could even ask her, did you know that? And you didn't see the way she drove herself half-mad with worry when your duties took you away from us the last time. You also didn't see the blessed relief on her face when she saw you back again, and well.

"Plus, I asked the two of you to schedule self-defence sessions – I didn't say you had to meet three times a week for the rest of the school year. I would have been satisfied with once a week – it was the two of you that decided to spend so much time together. And I can't imagine that you would have done that if you didn't take at least some pleasure in each other's company."

"Perhaps – but she still preferred Malfoy to me," Snape said bitterly. "The man may smile and smile, and still be a villain, but he's handsome and charming, so women just ignore the fact that he's the most despicable bastard alive. They always have."

"Yes, I know, my friend. It took her far too long to realise the truth about him. But she's long since realised that another man may frown and frown, and disagree with her, and still be a hero," Dumbledore said, his clear blue eyes fixed on Snape's face. "So perhaps you might consider that a woman may misunderstand you, and refuse to take your advice, and make the wrong decisions over and over again – and still be true and loyal, and worthy of your affections. And I think she would very much welcome the chance to prove herself to you – as a matter of fact, I think she's already been trying for some time now."

Snape slanted a penetrating look at Dumbledore. "Albus? Exactly why are you telling me all this?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I do have to admit my motives here aren't entirely altruistic – I dearly hope to persuade Professor Swain to take the Defence Against the Dark Arts position for next year, as a free at-will employee this time."

"And you think she'll be more inclined to stay around if she isn't eager to get the bloody hell away from me as fast as she can," Snape said sourly.

"Well, yes, as it stands, she doesn't have much motivation to stay here, truthfully. But I also think you've punished yourself for the errors of your youth long enough, Severus. Despite everything, you care for her, and she for you – and I believe with all my heart that the both of you deserve to be happy, finally."

"Please, Albus, if I had a Sickle for every time you told me I deserved to be happy, I'd be retired by now," Snape muttered. "It's verging on tiresome."

Many another person would have taken offence, but Dumbledore just laughed until his eyes teared, and he had to dab at them with his handkerchief. "Well then – if you won't let me talk you into pursuing an extremely clever and attractive woman who cares very much for you, then do me a favour and brew me up another batch of Calming Draught, because watching the two of you go on the way you do is getting exhausting, and I'm an old man with only so much energy. So please, Severus, if you won't do it for yourself, try and come to some kind of understanding with her before listening to the two of you kills me."

"Well... " Snape stared contemplatively at the empty blackboard. "If it gets me out of brewing Calming Draught, I suppose I could... have a talk with her. If you're certain I won't be making a fool of myself in the attempt," he hedged, treating Dumbledore to the full effect of his sinister eyebrow.

"Don't worry," his companion replied. "You won't."

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In answer to Emily's question about Professor Snape's favourite sort of restaurant, Dumbledore had just said, If Severus was your guest at dinner, I think he would be too busy convincing himself he had not drunk an infusion of hallucinogenic peyote by mistake to really notice the menu overmuch, but he does appreciate a good beefsteak. Amusing as that had been, it didn't shed much light on potential spots for a quiet – possibly even romantic – dinner. So the morning after their chat, she got up, showered and dressed in a light summer frock, and then went for a stroll down the Hogsmeade high street, thoughtfully considering venues for an elegant but not ostentatious sort of first date.

The Three Broomsticks was a very pleasant and well-kept neighbourhood pub, with a rather impressive and varied wine list, granted, but somehow she didn't want to take him out to some little neighbourhood place for a pub supper and a pint. The first date – and cease fire – of two people who had spent so much time imagining themselves to be mortal enemies really should have a bit of thought put into it.

There was a little place up ahead – Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. Emily had been there once or twice for Sunday high tea with Irma, and found it amusingly kitschy, if a bit over-full of sighing, hand-holding students. It was one thing to take Irma there for tea, but for lunch with Professor Snape, it seemed kind of precious, what with the frilly curtains and gilt cherubs. No, something else was definitely in order. What was that place up ahead – a pub called the Hog's Head. One glance in the window made her dismiss that possibility – the place looked more like the kind of establishment where one interviewed hired goons than a likely spot for a date.

Would he mind going into London, then? Emily knew several gourmet restaurants in Diagon Alley – but then it occurred to her that her visits to all of them had been in private little dining rooms with Lucius, and she didn't want to give Professor Snape the impression that he was being wined and dined in secret like some kind of illicit paramour. Perhaps something a touch less ostentatious than a six-course meal with six different vintages of wine to go with it – did he like Indian food, maybe? Greek? French?

She ended up in Scrivenshaft's, a little combination stationery store and bookshop, paging through a nightlife guide to Wizarding London. There were a few upscale steak and seafood sort of places that seemed rather nice... oh, a Tuscan cuisine restaurant had just opened. But if all else failed you couldn't really go wrong with French food for a romantic date, could you...

But then Emily's pleasant reverie was shattered by a woman's sweet, hostile voice from behind her. "Why, Mrs. Tumnus, I hadn't thought to see you here. I'd heard you'd had yourself an accident, and were in hospital."

Emily spun around, and found herself looking into the baleful brown eyes of one Mrs. Felina Rosier.

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"Er, yes, I just got out recently," she said, very stiffly indeed, and too surprised to be able to prevaricate with her usual facility. "My doctor recommended a lot of bed rest – I probably shouldn't even be up, but I simply had to have something new to read."

"Of course, I'd heard about how badly you were hurt – everyone was talking about it," Mrs. Rosier said, with a killing little sniff, one that clearly said that if Molly Weasley's murder had been entrusted to her, she would have made ever so much better of a job of it. "Oh well, no matter, I suppose. And I've been taking the opportunity to familiarise myself a bit with your people's magic," she continued, holding up a familiar book – Identity and Illusion: A Wizard's Overview of Faery Magic, by Buckminster Swain.

"One of Father's best known works," Emily said.

"Yes, I'd just been reading the entry about Glamours, it's absolutely fascinating. Lucius tells me you're very experienced with that art," Mrs. Rosier said conversationally. "Is it true that you can make anyone see and feel anything you want them to?" Her eyes raked over Emily's body from her black slippers, up to her waist – and given the heat of the day, of course she had put on a little black spidersilk frock with a hem a few inches above her bare knees. There was no need to bandage the burn any longer, so all that she wore under that translucent little skirt was an equally translucent petticoat and knickers – and given the sheerness of her dress, a bulky bandage would have been readily apparent.

So now, seeing as how she knew nothing about Professor Snape's iron burn potion, Felina Rosier had every reason to think Emily had faked her injury after the attack on Mrs. Weasley.

"No, that's not quite how it works," Emily interjected quickly. "As with so many other sorts of magic, there are limits to what you can do with Glamour. It's not like Transfiguration, where you create something new from something else – Glamour is entirely illusory. For example, if one created a Glamoured illusion that one was, say, bleeding on a carpet, there wouldn't be actual blood left behind after the Glamour was dispelled, you see."

"Oh, I see," Mrs. Rosier replied. "And by my estimation, it's only been about a week or so since you were hurt. What a wonder Faery medicine is! I'd heard something to the effect that iron burns were something to be dreaded, and here you are looking so well – why, it's nothing short of miraculous."

"It's actually been nine days since the accident," Emily corrected her. "And there have been some advances as far as curing iron burns lately, thank the Mother."

"Yes of course, thank the Mother," Mrs. Rosier sneered sweetly. "Well then, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. I'm behind on my correspondence, and wanted to see about catching up on it today."

"Of course."

Emily watched Mrs. Rosier go with grim resignation – now there was no way that she would be able to keep her recovered condition a secret. When she got back to Hogwarts, she sat huddled in one of the large armchairs in her sitting room, wondering how many hours she had before Lucius demanded her attention again.

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Sure enough, by ten p.m. that evening, there came the now-dreaded rustle-flitter-scritch of the Malfoys' black eagle owl at her window.

Darling ~

I've just received a letter today, from a friend telling me all about your miraculous recovery – oh, my love, that's splendid news! I thought you'd be in hospital for weeks, even months, but now I hear you're actually healed up enough to go for a bit of a walk, and looking blooming. You really were clever to seek out a healer amongst your own people – as I've always said, Faery medicine is nothing short of amazing. I'm thrilled, dearest, really.

Now, even with all the great Arcadian apothecaries and physicians this world has to offer looking after you, surely you can find just a moment of time to see me? It can be entirely platonic, of course, as I don't imagine you're at one hundred percent just yet, and I certainly wouldn't want to make any demands on you while you were recuperating. But I've always so enjoyed our cosy evenings together, when we just held each other and talked. When that assailant injured you back in June, you can probably remember how much I wanted to be of help to you, and I'd very much like to do the same now. Please, my love, indulge me.

It just so happens that I'll be in meetings in London all this week, so I should be in the Hulot club suite tomorrow night after half-past five. Why don't you drop by then for a bit of supper with an old friend – I'd love to have you. And I understand that travel might be a bit fatiguing for you, so you're welcome to get all the bed rest you'd like here, preferably next to me.

I can't wait to see you, dearest. Please don't be late.

Well. It looked as though her promised real talk with Professor Snape was going to have to be delayed, due to the overriding promise she had made to the head of the Order of the Phoenix, pledging her services as an informant.

I love you, but I gave my word that I would aid your cause.

When the affair with Lucius began, there had been no bond or commitment between her and Professor Snape; she had been sure that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Disappointing as that was, it meant that she had been free to see who she wanted, when she wanted. While it was definitely true that she hadn't made the best choice of men with whom to become romantically involved (a married man who is the de facto head of the Death Eaters, no less) but it had been her mistake to make. She'd owned up to it, and was now doing her best to regain her self-respect by advancing the Order of the Phoenix's cause. Yes, she had been wrong and she knew it, but her indiscretion had put her in an excellent position as far as becoming an informant, and as such, she thought she had been making the best of a bad situation.

Now that she was certain how she felt about Professor Snape – could no longer deny that she loved Severus – the idea of keeping a romantic tryst with another man just felt corrupt, immoral, and wrong. If she went to Lucius now, something precious and honest would be irreparably damaged and diminished, in a way that felt sickeningly like infidelity.

Forgive me, love. I promised.

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Time has a way of slipping by in an eyeblink when we most want it to tarry, and as such, it seemed that the sun went down and came up with unnatural speed. Today, she was to go down to London again. He would be waiting for her.

Every time Emily looked at her mantelpiece clock that morning, she would spend a second or two trying to stop its hands with a concerted effort of will and much furrowing of her eyebrow muscles, because of course it logically followed that if a clock stopped, time would stop as well, and she wouldn't have to leave the castle. All she ended up doing was making the pendulum of that clock swing wildly up and down, its hands spinning madly. But abuse one timepiece as she may, then she would glance at her watch, at the little boudoir clock on her bedside table, and both of them would be treacherously inching forward, marking off the time until she had to leave.

Then it was four p.m., and Emily listlessly began packing an overnight bag. She spent time making a careful list of everything that she had wanted to pack, then lost it. She would pack things, and then forget that she had packed them, and would waste time looking for them.

All this, to pack for a short weekend with Lucius. It used to be, that she would throw two dresses, some fetching lace underthings, and a toothbrush into a bag and be gone; now, she seemed to be sabotaging herself, dawdling for as long as she could.

Then it was five p.m., and she made her way out of the castle by the back way, and down toward the village.

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In Hogsmeade, she briefly stopped in at the Three Broomsticks for a cup of tea. She had perhaps a quarter hour before she had to go, and she was enjoying the warmth and familiarity of the pub before she had to embark for London, and face the moment when she would have to see Lucius, kiss him, feel his hands touching her.

"Hello, Professor. What can I get for you?" Madam Rosmerta asked.

"Just some jasmine tea. In a takeaway cup, please," she said, putting a Sickle on the bar. She had collected her change and her cup and was turning away from the counter when she heard Madam Rosmerta address someone else behind her with "Hello, Professor, what can I get for you?" as well. Odd, that.

"I'll have one of what she's having, please," said Severus Snape's voice. Emily froze.

By the holy Mother, he was right behind her at the bar – and she was on her way to meet Lucius. And of course it would be rude as all bloody hell to just nod curtly to him and leave... she was going to have to at least say hello to him, it was only polite.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, half-turning in his direction with an uncharacteristically timid smile.

"Madam." He gave her his usual polite nod of greeting, glancing down at the overnight bag in her hand – and Emily suddenly wanted to fling that offending item of luggage up in the air and completely decimate it with a Reductor Curse.

"You're going visiting this weekend?" he asked, for all the world like one colleague just making idle chatter with another.

"Yes, unfortunately." By all that's holy, don't look at me. Not now.

"Have a lovely time," he murmured. Madam Rosmerta put a steaming cup in front of him on the bar, and he took it from her with a brusque Thank you.

Emily offered him a quick, meaningless nod of farewell, and made her escape as fast as was polite.

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Jasmine tea. Before he met her, he'd barely been aware that jasmine tea even existed. Now every time he was in Hogsmeade, he found himself drinking the stuff. And liking it.

He paused on a bench outside the Three Broomsticks, holding his takeaway cup between both hands, lost in thought.

Snape would have described himself as a hardened cynic, a realist, a man of the world, and he had no illusions that a single impulsive sexual escapade somehow created any more than a fleeting bond between the two participants. He knew that he had no reason to have any claim on her affections, or to expect fidelity on her part; he even knew now that he bloody well could have pursued her after she turned up at Hogwarts, and hadn't, for reasons that somehow did not seem as compelling to him now as they had been at the time.

Bloody hell – nothing related to that woman seemed as simple as it had at the time.

He had been doing a great deal of hard thinking since his talk with Albus the morning before... and now, when he considered what he had said to her on the night of the Hallowe'en Ball, it seemed as though he hadn't so much been upbraiding the woman before him for leaving him behind that first night so much as he was berating every woman who had ever made him feel abandoned – chastising his mother for dying and leaving him alone, taking Bellatrix to task for encouraging him to love her, when she never had any intention of loving him in return. He had vented his own frustrations on Professor Swain that night just as surely as she had, when she lit into him in the school library.

She was just such a paradox to him, always had been... on the day of the hunt, she had killed a wild boar by herself without showing fear – but when the other hunters had reacted with horror to the sight of her other form, she had shrunk into herself with terror. An overt threat, she could handle, but when others found her monstrous, and alien, she was crushed. Then later... she had been so certain she could scare him away with her memories of battle, and the merciless cruelty she could find within herself in extremity. But he had been far from frightened or shocked – when he felt that anger and violence in her, it had been like coming home. No, you've not succeeded in making me fear you, he thought. Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true – he was deathly afraid she might destroy all his hopes with another killing smile, and one of those careless little laughs. Methought I was enamoured of an ass!

But today – when he saw that bag in her hand, she could barely speak to him or meet his eyes, and fled out of his sight as fast as was seemly. He had always despised the arrangement between her and Lucius – while she had never breathed a word to anyone about what was going on between the two of them physically, he knew what she must be doing in order to keep Lucius's attention, and thus get access to his confidences, and it infuriated him. Why in the bloody hell should Lucius be able to send for her and make her come to him, like paid entertainment, like some beck-and-call pet on a leash? He already had a wife at home, and Emily didn't even care for the man – why should he be allowed to assume proprietorship of her like some sort of jealous husband? It was her life, her body, and her heart, and he could easily imagine what a burden it must be for her to pretend love for a man she hated. No, that needed to stop, damn it, no matter how she felt about him, no matter what she had promised to Dumbledore.

You didn't see the way she drove herself half-mad with worry when your duties took you away from us the last time. You didn't see the blessed relief on her face when she saw you back again, and well, Albus had said. A scene from a Pensieve – the two of them lying in bed together, her hand curving around his cheek, her lips close to his ear... No, you didn't do anything wrong at all. You were lovely. Just... witty and clever and damned fine company. And then later... you were incredible. Afterward, I remember thinking how much I wanted to take you back to my London place and keep you there for about a month, without all those blasted millions-of-buttons clothes on. Her eyes burning into him as he walked away from her the night they took on the assassins together... why had she not called out to him, asked him to stay. If she'd only said something that night, anything, there was no force in this world or any other that could have induced him to leave her side ever again.

The fact was – he simply couldn't deny what he felt for her any longer, and he needed to know how she felt about him. He had to know if Albus was right; needed to hear her answer. Yes, and happiness, or no, and resignation. Please, he thought, if she refuses, don't let her say "We'll always be friends," because then I think I'll go back to my office and have a nice glass of cyanide.

Do I dare? Do I dare? What if I'm not in the strata she wants as far as a lover?

There was still time to turn around, and go back up to the castle.

He put his hand in his pocket and touched his letter to her, as if to reassure himself that it was still there, and he had truly seen and heard all that went on at Midsummer. If there was the chance that she still felt so much for him, then he would wonder till it drove him mad about what could have been if he let her go now.

I betrayed the Dark Lord, he reminded himself, as he finished his jasmine tea and threw the cup into a nearby waste bin. Compared to that, this is a small thing. I am more than capable of giving a woman a letter.

He reminded himself of this many times as he followed the path his colleague had taken, into Hogsmeade Station.

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By the holy Mother, why did she keep ordering jasmine tea, when all it did was remind her of the night she met him. Yes, this was definitely her last cup of the stuff. It just had too many memories attached to it now.

Emily had taken her tea to one of the long, low benches in Hogsmeade station, just to have a quiet seat alone with a beautiful view. The trains only ran once or twice a day in Hogsmeade in the summertime, as everyone in this village usually travelled by Floo or broomstick or Apparition, and as such, the station was deserted today.

And of course, he could Apparate, so he would have no reason to come down here.

She'd promised Dumbledore that she wouldn't leave the Wizarding world without talking to Professor Snape... really talking to him – but she had also promised him her aid against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. So... after September 23rd, when her obligation to Dumbledore was over, she would finally be free to have that promised real talk with him... and free to make her escape the second after he scornfully laughed a refusal to her, if that was what he was going to do. If he didn't, there would be time for them after that, but if he did, she wanted to be free to disappear off to where no one would lay eyes on her shame and humiliation for the next week.

Maybe the next month.

Or perhaps the following year.

So, how to initiate this real talk. She would go seek him out, as per Albus's advice, in his office perhaps. She would ask if he had a spare moment to speak to her. She would then sit him down, and say –

What?

"Professor Snape, despite the fact that I had an affair with your worst enemy for most of this year, I am in fact desperately in love with you, you and none other, even though I've never gotten up the courage to actually tell you so until now. Despite everything that's happened, our one awkward date and quick anonymous shag in a callbox is now and has always been more precious to me than all of his wooing and gifts and protestations of love, and now...

"Oh please, I beg of you, just give me a second chance, please...

"Please... "

Oh yes, that would work. He was always so impressed by pathetic begging, absolutely; if she said something like that to him she'd probably have as much chance of persuading him to return her affections as Neville Longbottom did of persuading him to give an even thousand points to Gryffindor. Gads, if she came to him whining like that, he'd probably be totally justified if he was to drown her in a cauldron and call it euthanasia.

She finished the last of her tea, and threw the cup into the nearest waste bin. Well, then, her last excuse to remain here was finished. Emily picked up her bag and was getting ready to Apparate away –

"Professor Swain?"

– and she stopped so fast she might have been in danger of splinching herself, and spun around.

The black, etched silhouette of a man in the late afternoon sun. A gust of wind caught his black coat and set it swirling, the same wind that rustled her skirts as she set her bag down, and went to meet him.

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"Professor."

"Professor."

She gave him a wan smile of greeting, and he returned it with another polite nod.

"Should you really be out?" she asked. "What if someone sees you?"

"I don't care. I'll go outside if I bloody well please to." He nodded toward the bag on the ground – "You've gotten another summons from Lucius? How did he find out you've recovered?"

"I ran into Mrs. Rosier in the village yesterday, and she could probably tell I wasn't exactly at death's door." She averted her eyes apologetically. "You know how it is – the Order's work is never done."

"Indeed. Though you look as though these trips are becoming... rather more of a strain than before," he observed.

"Well, they're not exactly what you could call a good time." Please stop looking at me. I could endure this so much more easily if you'd only stop looking at me.

"Professor?" her companion asked. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you." But a tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away with a little swipe of her hand. Not in front of him. Never in front of him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes burning into the side of her face. "Because you look absolutely miserable. No offence."

"Well, it's a pretty miserable situation to be in," she shot back. "I'm sure you hated it, when it was you who had to go among them."

"I did," he replied flatly. "Every time."

"Fine, if you want to hear the unvarnished truth? I hate this," she whispered, turning away from him. "I hate that thing – he's something that should not be, but yet he is, and he knows more about me and has more power over me all the time, and just being near him makes me feel corrupted and unclean. I pity Draco and Beatrice so much that I want to kidnap them and take them off somewhere where they can be free of their awful families."

"Perhaps we should," he replied grimly.

"And I can't even stand to look at Lucius now. All of them keep trying to find ways to get their hooks into me, and maybe one of these days they will. You talked me out of it last time, but what if... what if... "

Then her chest felt so tight she couldn't draw breath, and her face felt like it was on fire. Snape had taken her elbow, and was helping her sit down onto the platform bench. "Breathe, Professor – you're hyperventilating."

"I have to go, I'm going to be late. He doesn't like it when I'm late."

"I don't give a toss what he wants. Now sit down, and get your breath."

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Quarter of an hour later, Emily was still sitting on the train station bench beside her colleague, and half-past five had come and gone.

"You know... you were right," she said finally. "I am not cut out for this kind of intelligence work, and I never will be. It's like being trapped in a maze that just keeps getting smaller and more complicated every second, and I've lost all hope that I'll ever solve it, I'm just trying not to be crushed. It's like I've been walking along a tightrope for so long that just letting myself fall is looking pretty damned good... I know I'm going to anyway, eventually, so the last act of will I'll ever make seems to be to decide when exactly it will happen."

"The night I had to meet Lucius at the Fusilier, I felt the same way myself," he said quietly.

"But that's still not all of it," she said despondently. "I could have anything, including revenge on everyone who's ever hurt me. I could have everything done for me, and all I have to do is take an oath to do whatever the Dark Lord tells me to do. If I just do that, then all of this uncertainty will be over. There are times when that seems so simple, and so right."

She turned toward him, expecting nothing but condemnation, unable to think of a word to say in her own defence. "Again... you probably think I'm pretty horrible, don't you – and you're probably right." Her head inclined miserably into her hands with a rasp of bitter laughter.

"No, I don't think you're horrible," he said. "You're still trying to say No. When I was nineteen and they offered the same to me, I couldn't say Yes fast enough. I thought myself lucky to have been asked at all."

It was impossible that she had let her head fall onto his shoulder, with a dark little laugh that turned into a sob. She waited to be repudiated, but to her astonishment... he didn't seem to mind. And then he was bending over her with his arm around her shoulders, murmuring words of understanding and comfort. Yes, I know. Of course you're tired – you don't always have to protect everyone all by yourself. There, you're all right. You'll be all right.

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So the warrior broke at last. And instead of feeling jubilant, instead of the usual smug, despairing thrill of I was right, all he felt was the purest, keenest empathy imaginable.

She was walking the same tightrope on which he had found himself sixteen years earlier, and no one had comforted him then, or even cared to notice him straying from the path of normal, respectable, and decent at the time. By the time he had gone to Dumbledore, it was too late – he had pledged his fealty, taken the oath, and meant it. The Mark was already a part of him, branded onto his flesh – a tragic flaw written on his very skin.

It was too late for him, and might soon be too late for her, but it cost him nothing to put his arm around her, and murmur what he thought were pathetic, hollow noises of there, there at her.

But somehow, that was exactly what she seemed to need.

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Then Emily's self-consciousness returned, and she pulled away from him. "By the Mother, this is embarrassing. You probably hate it when women cry."

He put a clean white handkerchief in her hand. "I hate it when people cry to demand my pity, like some schoolgirl who can't give the right answer in class. I can understand someone crying because she has to live with a situation she finds unendurable."

"Thanks. I don't know why I keep having these stupid crying jags, it seems like I'm just weeping and wailing at every damn thing lately."

There came a rattle of metal off to one side, and Emily glanced up to see a couple of men in coveralls collecting the plastic bags from the garbage cans far down on the platform, substituting fresh liners. She glanced up in dismay, not wishing to be seen by strangers while in such a vulnerable mood – and peripherally, she saw her colleague's gaze following hers. A second later, she saw Snape's lips move soundlessly, and the maintenance wizards passed by without so much as glancing at them. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For when you don't want anyone looking at you," he murmured. "Terribly restful, that."

This, from him. She laughed softly in the middle of wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "Your handkerchiefs aren't black."

"Don't think I haven't asked for black ones. I don't think they make them."

"I'm sure you could Transfigure them up black if you liked."

"Rather a lot of trouble to go through, just for a humble snotrag, don't you think?" he asked, shrugging. As always, his sarcasm was the bleeding edge of perfect – she laughed so hard that she had to dab away more tears with that snotrag a moment later.

"Well, all right. Feeling lots better now, so... I guess I'd best be on my way, then. Thanks, you've been most kind. Perhaps if we get any more of us double-agent types working for Dumbledore, we'll have to form a support group or something," she said with a bitter laugh.

"Perhaps we might," he said.

Emily nodded her farewell to him, more warmly than she ever had. She got up from the bench and was picking up her bag when a question hit her like a welcome lash –

"Do you really want to leave?"

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She stopped, set down her bag; then very slowly and deliberately turned back to him.

"No, I don't."

They regarded each other for a long, blistering moment.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes burning in his pale face. "Just stay. Don't go to London tonight."

"Because you're asking me to."

"Yes, because I don't want you to go," he said, with quiet ferocity, taking a step toward her. "And you don't want to go, and you shouldn't have to."

"But I'm committed to this – I promised Dumbledore."

"So what. I promised my dentist that I'd floss more often, but that doesn't mean that I have to do it all day, every day, now, does it?"

Again with the flawless sarcasm – and again she laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes.

"Emily... I need to know something," he said hoarsely. "It was personal, wasn't it. The night the pub exploded."

"Oh, by the Mother – of course it was." She averted her eyes, cheeks flaming. "It could never have been anything else. I wasn't going to let them kill you – I can't stand the idea of the world not having you in it. I'd rather hear you barking about those stupid Dungbombed cauldrons than hear anyone else swear he adored me." She turned back to him with a little, bitter laugh. "There, I've said it. Go ahead and ridicule my absurd sentimentality and ridiculous notions of bravery all you want."

"Why would I ridicule that?" He sounded thunderstruck at the idea. "Miserable as it may seem to some, I'm not going to readily part with my life when someone offers me the alternative of keeping it – bloody hell, you have my express permission to drag me out of the way of exploding storefronts as often as is necessary."

"Well thanks. I'm so glad that's cleared with you then."

"And as for absurd sentimentality, somehow I can't see you indulging in that overmuch." He moved close to her side, laid his hand on her shoulder – and she trembled under just that touch. Dear Mother, he had to be able to feel it.

"Damn it, Severus... you make infinitely clear all the ways in which I'm not to trifle with you, but you never leave me any way to approach you. And I'm only going to humble myself so far and no further. But if I thought you wanted my attention, you'd have all of it."

Then to her utter, jaw-dropping, pulse-stilling surprise, he said: "I don't recall ever telling you that I didn't want your attention."

"What?" She laughed aloud at the sheer nerve of the man – when had he ever told her he didn't want her attention? He did that constantly, all day, every day. At the Malfeasant weekend, he had said it... or had he? Wait... he had said... but then, she had thought he was right to be indignant, after what he told her that night. But then there was the time at the Yule Ball... but actually she did the leaving that night. No, there was that time in her classroom, the day after Midsummer... but it seemed like she had done the leaving that day too. And then there was... there was... she searched her memory, looking for the defining moment in which Severus Snape had told her to get bent, get stuffed, not to even imagine that he wanted her any more. She knew he had, at some point, she was convinced that he had.

But –

But. He hadn't. He had told her he was furious about something on two or three occasions, and very eloquently detailed his reasons as to why – but he had never once told her that he didn't want anything further to do with her. And given that she had quite memorably blown up at him on more than one occasion, and at least twice with no real reason for doing so at all, this now seemed quite admirable of him.

Dear Lady of the Worlds, she needed to pay attention.

Peripherally, she could see him curiously watching all of this intense thought, and cathartic realisation, going on on her face. "At least you already recognise that ignoring the obvious is your biggest fault," he said. "That's a start."

"Well... " She put her hand up to her shoulder, clasped it over his. "It's not very polite to make a date with someone and then not follow up on it the next day," she said. She slanted an accusing eyebrow up at him. "You stood me up, Professor Snape."

He turned away from her, perhaps hung his head just a fraction. "I know," he whispered. "That was... unfortunate."

"What a rakish, caddish thing to do – if you changed your mind the next morning, you could have just said so – "

"I hadn't changed my mind the next morning – I couldn't remember what happened the next morning. That was why I asked you what happened, and you wouldn't tell me. So... " He turned away from her, his jaw tensing. "Oh, bloody hell. Here, just read it."

He took a rather crumpled-looking parchment envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. Emily opened his letter, composed on the evening the Fusilier was destroyed, and finally read it.

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"You watched the entire evening in a Pensieve?" she asked, astonished. "Really?"

"Yes. It seemed the only way to get some peace from the curiosity."

"You looked at the entire evening? Including what went on on the Knight Bus?"

"All of it," he said, with a self-conscious little cough. "So perhaps you can imagine my surprise at discovering exactly why you got so furious when I spoke to you the next day. Can I infer that perhaps... you were a bit disappointed?"

She arched her own sinister eyebrow at him. "You think?"

He only looked at her, with a tiny grin of absolutely diabolical amusement on his face. What a great day for Snape when his annoyingly elusive ice-maidenly colleague was left substantially bent out of shape because he had eluded her.

"So," she said, "if you saw the whole thing in the Pensieve, you would have seen yourself being ever so persuasive on the way back, in a very King's Cross callbox kind of way, and I said that I couldn't take you up on such an invitation while you were so impaired. All because I didn't want there to be any chance that you might feel taken advantage of again, you see."

Snape nodded his total understanding with an almost straight face. "Entirely admirable of you."

"But then I said for you to suggest... the same sort of thing the next day, when you were sober. And then you would have also seen that you were being so insufferably cocky afterward – "

"I wouldn't call that insufferably cocky, that was really more of an attitude of gentle smugness. Believe me, were I to indulge in a bit of insufferable cockiness, it would be a great deal more pronounced than that – "

"– insufferably cocky afterward that I said I was going to insist on being taken to dinner first, just so you didn't get too sure of yourself. And then – " She pointed to the last paragraph of his letter – "here you say you're still amenable to making good on the original invitation, at least as of the seventh of July."

"Oh, yes, of course. You wanted dinner first." Then he did something completely unexpected to her – he laughed. Had a good chuckle, truth be told, which Emily found both infuriating and adorable in equal measures.

After a moment, he faced her with courteous formality, and said: "Well, then. I suppose that if I am to save my reputation from any accusations of rakishness or caddishness, I shall indeed have to make good on the original invitation, then. Professor, where would you like to go for dinner?"

Being asked such a question, in such a courtly tone of voice, while fixed with such a velvet-black gaze, made Emily feel unexpectedly abashed. "Oh... no need to go through a lot of trouble – what were you planning on doing tonight?"

"Probably just supper in my quarters, and doing a bit of reading is all."

"That sounds lovely," she said, "if you would like company."

"I would like company," he replied. "Shall we say, seven, then?"

"I shall I show up at seven," she said. "Which, coming from you, really means 6:53."

"6:53 it is," he said, with the ironic little grin she adored.

The only thing to do in response to that was to launch herself into his arms, sink a hand into all that black hair, and kiss him – and he kissed her back with all the tantalising arrogance only he was capable of. He tasted like jasmine tea.

The Hogsmeade train platform was entirely deserted, save for two tall, thin figures in black, who held each other very close for a long, long time, all else in the world forgotten.

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Well then. What to wear for a quiet supper with Severus Snape.

He had politely excused himself in the Great Hall, saying he had preparations to make, and pressing her hand before retreating. Emily had the distinct feeling that he would have kissed her good-bye had it been a more private area. Then she went back to her rooms and judiciously composed a letter to Lucius:

Darling,

Yes, I know you don't like to be kept waiting. Really, I do! Unfortunately, though, something's come up that means we'll not be able to see each other for some time. There are, er, physical reasons to be taken into consideration, if you know what I mean.

I know I'm being coy, but it's always embarrassing to discuss oestrus with a man, and the emotional ups and downs of it can make me a bit hard to take. I don't imagine you want to hear a dreary litany of gynaecological woes and moodiness, so why don't we just spare you all of that.

I know you're going to be disappointed, but you did make me promise to stay away from you during oestrus no matter what, and really, this would not be a good time to present Draco with a little brother or sister. Plus, you know how hard it's been for me to keep my hands off you in the best of times – !

Thanks for understanding, dear. I hope everything's not too excruciating for you at present.

There, all of that was entirely true and correct. Every concrete statement she had made in the letter was true, and given who he was married to, he was no doubt used to women being coy about bodily functions. She hadn't come out and said she was in oestrus, and she did find it embarrassing to discuss that state with most men.

And there were indeed physical reasons to be taken into consideration as to why she couldn't see Malfoy at this time – the foremost among them of course being that she didn't think she could live one day more without having another madly impassioned shag with Severus.

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The only reason Snape hadn't taken Professor Swain – no, Emily – directly back to his quarters was because his apartments were a bloody mess.

Snape could function all right in a certain amount of clutter – it was his mess, after all, and he knew where everything was. He was a bachelor who had lived alone since his late teens – the idea of keeping his quarters presentable enough to be viewed by other people was now almost entirely alien to him. Thank Merlin that Hogwarts had such a large staff of house-elves about – after he Flooed down to the kitchen asking a gang of them to come up and assist with tidying his rooms, the place was swept and dusted and furniture-polished, with fresh linens on the bed and tidily arranged books, in less than an hour. He told the one of them who seemed to be in charge, a slightly dotty fellow named Dobby, that he would be hosting dinner for two in his rooms that evening, and would be sending down a menu shortly.

Then, he sat down at his desk, picked up a quill, and tried to devise such a menu. What did one feed a Fae dinner guest?

He knew that his guest was native to a country where caffeine and refined flour and sugar didn't exist, so those were all right off the menu from the start. Additionally, he was well versed on what was addictive, toxic, or otherwise harmful to her. He even knew quite intimately what sort of euphoric hallucinogens her people partook of recreationally.

But what did she like to eat?

Snape himself was partial to the English standard of roast beef with peas, potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding. But it occurred to him that roast beef was rich in iron, and thus might be rather indigestible for one of the Fae, so that was right out. He had also heard Druella Black complaining to her daughter that the vegetables were like bullets at the Malfeasant Hallowe'en supper, and Narcissa had replied that Lucius had insisted on cooking them in the Arcadian manner that night, in a tone that indicated what she thought of any culture that didn't appreciate fork-tender vegetables. It hadn't occurred to Snape to mind the vegetables, but then, he had more teeth than Druella Black.

He jotted down:

Some sort of smallish roast bird?

Steamed vegetables of some variety?

Coffee and dessert?

Oh no, bloody hell, she was a Faerie, one didn't serve them after-dinner coffee, what was he thinking?

Finally he took out a fresh sheet of paper and scrawled down:

Dobby:

Please send supper for two down to my apartments at 6:50. Kindly include nothing a Faerie would find toxic or noxious in any way, with lightly steamed vegetables. Feel free to indulge any gourmet notions you may have, within reason.

~ S. Snape

and Flooed that letter down to the kitchen. There, they were house-elves, they were good at this sort of thing, and they had managed not to poison her all year, so heaven knew they should be able to figure that out.

Now, to the slightly more onerous task of making himself look presentable to a date.

Oh, by the Merlin's hoary testicles... he had a date.

He had what might even be described as a particularly hot date.

Yes, he thought as he made his way into the shower, the little minx definitely had a talent for disturbing his universe.

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After Emily climbed up to the Owlery and dispatched her note to Lucius, she headed back to her own apartments to dress and find some way to occupy herself until 6:51 or so. Now she was twirling around holding frocks up to check their seductive potential like a randy teenage girl.

Fuck it. Who was she trying to kid – her primary criteria for an ensemble for tonight was that it be something easily removable. If he didn't reiterate his entreaty to sleep with him, she was just going to ask him to sleep with her, and she wanted something that hindered the access of his hands to her skin as little as possible – while not looking tastelessly provocative or desperate. Something demure – yet easy access. Finally she decided on a soft camisole and long skirt of finely pleated spidersilk, no stockings, flat kidskin slippers that were easily kicked off, no jewellery, just a touch of violet oil behind her ears.

Oh, should she bring something? He was hosting dinner in his quarters... perhaps she should bring a bit of dessert? Or an aperitif? Or wine?

She went to her closet – she had exactly one bottle of the Chateau Latour 1986 burgundy she had bought as Christmas gifts for the staff left. Seeing as how she had smelled it on Snape's breath shortly after Christmas, she knew he liked it, or had at least drunk it.

Half an hour to go.

Knickers, or no knickers?

Yes, she should probably wear them, just to keep up the pretence of demureness, and to at least pretend not to be acquainted with his savage knickers-ripping sort of tendencies. But again, fuck it, who was she trying to kid – she would have sacrificed every pair of knickers she had and defended Rivendale all by her lonesome if only it would get her another three minutes of impassioned lovemaking up against a callbox wall with Professor Snape.

No – Severus.

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Severus felt somewhat more settled after a shave, toothbrushing, and hot shower – there being very few worries known to man that could not be at least partially assuaged by immersing oneself in a great deal of hot water. Now for the onerous task of getting a comb through his hair. Snape men didn't go bald or grey, but detangling this mop was a laborious task indeed, combs had been known to snap in half while being forced through his hair – only his mother's hands had ever been deft enough to comb it out without yanking.

When he finally had his hair coaxed into some modicum of smooth and neat, he leaned forward into the mirror, and something else caught his eye. Oh bloody hell, when had he let his teeth get so coffee stained? He rummaged around in his medicine cabinet for the bottle of Tooth-Whitening Potion that he had stopped using years ago, largely because the stuff burned like a bloody branding iron, and he hadn't cared about impressing anyone with his appearance for years. He poured a capful and swished it around – Owwww for one minute, then spit. There, that was better. He didn't want blindingly white Gilderoy Lockhart teeth, but one didn't want to look as though one had been making a meal of charcoal and clay, either.

There was a rattling sound behind him, as two golden place settings, cutlery, and some small covered platters appeared on the table under the window. He crossed to the table and lifted some of the domed lids – a couple of nicely done breasts of duck in what smelled deliciously like orange cognac sauce, mixed steamed vegetables, herbed new potatoes, a chilled plate of sliced pears arranged around a wedge of English Stilton. China teacups, a chilled bowl of lemon slices, and a steaming pot of orange allspice tea. The sight and smell of food suddenly made him notice very definitely that he was starving, having subsisted on nothing but black coffee all day.

He glanced at the clock. 6:51.

His apartments didn't exactly look like the latest home decor spread from an interior decorator's magazine, but they were clean and tolerably organised. The table was spread with a repast that he believed would be reasonably palatable, and not in any way toxic, to his guest. This would do well enough.

Oh bloody hell, who was he kidding. Dinner was irrelevant, just a convention to prove to themselves that they weren't savage animals bent on copulation. He briefly wished that it was acceptable custom among civilised people to wordlessly take one's date straight to bed upon arrival, have lots of ragingly good sex, and then have dinner afterward.

6:52.

I flatly refuse to go to pieces over a pretty woman like some callow first-year, he had sworn to himself in a long-ago journal entry.

So much for that resolution.

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Emily stood for perhaps half a minute in front of his door, trying to get up the gumption to knock. All of a sudden it felt unbelievably awkward and foolish to be standing in front of a man's door with a bottle in her hand. Was there any graceful way to show up carrying a bottle, for pity's sake? What if he served whitefish or prawns or something and red wine was totally inappropriate?

Dinner. What in the flaming Christian hell was she thinking in asking for dinner first? She didn't think she could eat in front of him. The Mother knew she already felt so self-conscious that she was hardly able to swallow right now, at this moment – how in the hell was she going to make polite conversation over a meal – ?!

Oh shite, her watch said she had twenty more seconds till 6:54, and it would make a good impression, especially for an Arcadian, and one who wanted to sleep with the incredibly punctual Severus Snape at that, to be on time.

Just knock, she told herself. He said he would like company. He wants me here. Just knock.

She was raising her hand to do just that when the doorknob turned and the door opened.

"Oh, hello," she said, with a bright, nervous smile. "I was just about to knock."

"Good evening," he replied courteously. "Er, won't you come in?"

"Thank you," she said.

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As before, Emily felt incredibly self-conscious before him, but he seemed as cool and suave as black silk.

He looked good, very good, actually. His hair still smelled damp and bore the marks of a comb, and his face still had the slight flush of recent shaving. Wearing plain black trousers, a well-pressed white dress shirt, and a simple but rich black waistcoat. He had greeted her very cordially, but seemed to be addressing it more in the direction of the floor. By the time she came within two feet of him she could detect the faint, pleasant odour of castile and witch hazel soap and old-fashioned Bay Rhum shaving lotion, which didn't quite hide an acid tang of self-consciousness accompanying the pleasant scent of freshly washed man, overlaid with a cloud of agitation, all warring with an intoxicating amount of testosterone-laden lust.

But then she already knew that this was a complicated man. Hello to you too, darling.

To flaming Christian hell with self-consciousness – she was ecstatic to see him and wanted him to know it. "Hello," she said, then set the wine bottle on the table closest to the door, put her arms around his neck for a brief, but tenderly affectionate, kiss. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," he muttered, again more in the direction of the floor, but seemed to be quite enjoying the kissing.

"Dinner smells wonderful," she said. It occurred to her that such a good host deserved to be kissed again, and did just that. Again, this met with no objection, and as always, the slightest touch of this bloke's lips on hers was like to make her light-headed.

"I, er, told the house-elves to indulge any gourmet notions they might have – they always seem rather bored when it's only a handful of us staying at the castle... seem to like having something to do," he murmured, with just the smallest trace of an uncharacteristic stammer, but then perhaps Severus Snape wasn't altogether used to dates that began with long, tremblingly randy spates of kissing.

"Of course. Good of you to think of them," she said, brushing her lips over his cheek, delicately caressing the corner of his mouth with hers. Gods, the hard set of his mouth wouldn't ever let you know how soft his lips were.

"Someone mentioned to me that you weren't fond of boiled vegetables, so I recommended steaming instead... " His hand caressed the small of her back, as if enjoying the feel of her waist under silk.

"Yes, my one pet peeve about English cuisine is the custom of cooking vegetables until they're khaki... " How really bloody considerate of him. She had absolutely no idea that he had noticed the first thing about what she liked for dinner. This definitely called for more kissing.

Now conversation, dinner, anything beyond that embrace was forgotten; she was kissing him the way she had wanted to for most of a year, just holding him tight and sinking her lips into his, his tongue caressing hers in that way that made her pulse race, and made her feel as though all conventions of sexual restraint were idiotic and a man like this must be had, and immediately, and if a callbox ledge was the one place available for such, then so be it – but then he turned his lips away from hers with what seemed like a tremendous exertion of will.

"The elves went through the trouble of cooking supper... we really should it eat it, I suppose," he whispered, breathing hard.

"Right," she said breathlessly, nodding.

He put one last soft kiss on her lips before picking up the wine bottle she had set down – "Ah, Chateau Latour 1986. Happy Christmas."

"I'm sorry, did you not like it?"

He went into a cupboard, came out with a corkscrew and a couple of glasses. "It was gone by about nine p.m. that Boxing Day, so I would call it reasonably palatable." When paired with a faint grin, it was amazing how funny he could make the sinister eyebrow look – later, in her more maudlin moments, she would sometimes think she could have lived and died in the sight of that grin.

Then he very politely pulled out a chair for her, and took the seat on her left.

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Severus was not at all used to being thoroughly kissed less than a minute after his dinner companion arrived, but had rather decided he didn't much mind it. For a minute there, he was almost convinced that they would after all end up going straight to bed and having dinner afterward, and had rather been warming to the idea. Professor Swain seemed as though she wouldn't have minded either in the slightest, with typical Arcadian total spontaneity, but then his self-consciousness returned, and he escorted her to the table. One should at least pretend to be acquainted with decent manners when one had a dinner guest.

He was much more used to dinner parties with women like Narcissa Malfoy and Felina Rosier, who ate tiny portions and didn't seem to allow themselves to enjoy even the rarest, choicest delicacies; he honestly thought that Narcissa Malfoy would rather redecorate than eat. But Professor Swain – Emily – carved into the simple but hearty repast with a delightful sort of sensualist's gusto. It was really charming to see a woman very much enjoy a meal.

"Oh, I wanted to ask you something," she said. "Your piece on human bezoars in last year's autumn issue of Alchymia et Potio Diurnalis talked all about their uses in anti-caustic antidotes – are you planning to write anything on their preparation for countering neurotoxic poisons? As I recall, you touched on that briefly in your introduction... "

So she had read his bezoar paper, after all.

"Ah, yes, I'm now working on an outline for a piece on the uses of bezoars in the preparation of anti-venins... " And again, what an exquisite listener. That gaze could make anyone feel like the cleverest bloke alive, like nothing but pure concentrated wit and brilliance ever fell from his lips.

It was looking to be the most pleasant meal he had enjoyed in a very long time, and he was glad that she had wanted dinner first.

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By the time they had finished discussing the new articles he was outlining, and the one in progress that he was writing, they had gone through the duck and side dishes and all of the wine and tea. The topic of how potions were taught in Arcadia and the Apothecaries' Guild apprentice system was introduced while they were leisurely nibbling on plates of fruit and cheese. After that, he remembered an excellent bottle of fifteen-year-old Oban he had stashed away for a special occasion, and poured them both an after-dinner glass. Somehow, she struck him as the sort who wasn't afraid of hard liquor.

"So tell me – why did you decide to examine Midsummer's night in a Pensieve?" she asked, inhaling the aroma from her glass. "This is excellent, by the way."

"Thank you. I was just horribly curious – I could only remember flashes of that evening, but what I can remember was so surreal. It was such that I couldn't be certain if it really happened, or if I dreamed it. People dancing with purple fire, men with antlers, women with wings, stars swirling in the sky. It was all just a huge jumble."

"Do you remember getting on the Knight Bus?"

"No. First... I was with you and there was music playing and other people around. Then there was no music and we were alone, and... well."

"So now that you've, er, refreshed your memory... what were you talking to Malabar Puck about?" she asked, fixing him with a look. "It was the strangest thing – I left you alone for a bit while I said some good-byes, and when I came back, you and my friend Ciaran Puck's grandfather were just chatting away like you'd known each other forever. When I said hello, the two of you clammed right up."

He fixed her with a look of his own. "You have of course already figured out that we were talking about you, oh incredibly coy one. He gave me some very good advice, and that's all I'll say about it."

She laughed. "Fair enough. And what was going on with that nixie who looked like she was getting ready to give you her phone number?"

"Nixie – ah. Red hair and black wings?"

"That'd be the one."

"She really did have wings," he said, with a wondering shake of his head. "The first time round I thought I'd hallucinated that."

"Yes, she did. Her whole race has them." She glanced downward, with just the smallest, most delicate of scowls. "So is your poor coat still traumatised from being so molested by her?"

"I don't see what you're making such a fuss about," he said, in a tone of mild reproach. "I talked to her for about five minutes, and all I really said was some inarticulate oohing and aahing over the fact that she had the wings, because that's rather new to me."

"Cuter than buttons, that one," Emily said, slanting a look at him. "And she really liked you."

"Well, yes, she was stunning," he agreed readily. "But don't be trying to convince me she was doing anything other than perhaps briefly amusing herself, because I don't believe it for a second."

"She did," Emily insisted. "Tell me, did she use the old chestnut line of "Ever make it with a girl who can fly?" I'm warning you, they say that to everybody. It's their version of, "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" I'm not joking."

"She said nothing of the sort, and even if she had given me her telephone number, I'd have been at sea as to what to do with it – you bloody well know how I am with Muggle telephones," he replied, with an irritable little shrug – which made her laugh so hard that he actually smirked after a moment, and seemed much appeased. "So can they really fly, with those wings? Gain altitude, travel at a good clip of speed, like birds?"

"More like moths, actually, they don't soar precisely, they sort of flitter and glide."

"Really." He leaned back in his chair, picturing that. "I'd rather like to see that sometime."

Emily looked a bit put out by all this interest in nixies. "Once you've spent a bit of time around them, though, the flying gets sort of mundane. Flying for a nixie isn't all that much different than running for anyone else – it's not like it takes them a whole lot of effort or talent to learn it," she said, with a dismissive shake of her head. "You get your nixie fancier sort of bloke now and then, who idealises them for some reason, but I think I'd be more impressed by someone who was tremendously talented at something they'd actually had to work at." She bent over her glass with a shrug.

"Of course," he replied. "Like a twice-decorated combat veteran, perhaps?"

"Well, I did manage to take out a wild boar by all by myself with nothing but a sword and a couple of knives," Emily shot back. "How much did that thing end up weighing?"

"Four hundred seventy-five pounds was what I was told," he said, with a very bland sip of whiskey.

"Let's see my Lady Acherontia do that, why don't we. But no, that's not at all impressive, because I can't fly," she said moodily.

Severus was regarding her with more than a bit of amusement. "Er, are you quite finished?" he asked. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting."

She considered that for a moment. "Yes, I suppose."

"Those showy nixie girls perhaps get all the attention at home, or some such?" he asked delicately.

"Sometimes," Emily admitted grudgingly. "Well, that and six of them nearly burned my father's library once, so I can't say I'm entirely rational regarding them at times. It's the Seventh Kingdom that produces most of your lunatic fringe dwellers who think books and writing are blasphemous and perpetrate terrorist actions against libraries and scholars and portals and Second-Worlders. They can also be very haughty and turn up their noses at "the Earthbound" a lot, if you know what I mean."

"I understand. Tell me, how did you know her name?"

"Oh, I don't, not really, but I can make a guess at her surname and clan affiliations from her wing markings. To some extent, the coloration of a nixie's wings are like caste marks. The girl in the Mushroom Circle had black wings with silver and white Death's Head patterns, and generally only very high-ranking nixie nobility and royalty come from that bloodline. She was probably some kind of noble. Queen Mab is one of the Acherontias, put it that way."

"Ah, I see," he said, nodding. "Though you have to admit that she behaved herself a great deal better than that... that Alain person." He growled the last two words in the tone he usually reserved for the words Harry Potter.

"Oh, you didn't like him?" Emily asked, the picture of innocence.

"He's appalling, that bloke. Rather inconsiderate of him to bait a fellow who's taken a euphoric hallucinogen by mistake," he said, scowling direly.

Emily grinned. "Yes, he's horribly sarcastic, always has been, but he's also fantastically clever and amusing and a wonderful friend, so everyone loves him anyway."

"Oh, fantastically clever and everyone loves him," Severus said, bending over his glass with a touch of a sneer. "Bully for him."

Emily hid a smirk in her own glass. "And I forget, did I introduce you to Mackenzie Collier?"

"Who?"

"Alain's wife," she said, with a demure sip of whiskey. "Very cute woman, long curly hair and glasses. She's also an artist, only she's more into multimedia, whereas he's an oil on canvas sort of fellow."

"Oh... I think I remember him dancing with her a bit. He's married?"

"Very happily. Has been for the last five years."

"Ah," he said, with another sip of whiskey. Somehow his annoyance with Alain Collier seemed much mollified.

"If you couldn't remember so much of what happened that evening, I can only imagine how you must have felt when you woke up the next morning," Emily said, leaning her chin on her hand with a sympathetic grin. "You must have thought I'd played a terrible prank on you. I'm sorry it upset you so much."

"Well... " He glanced down at his glass, looking abashed for perhaps an instant. "It was very disconcerting. I woke up in my bed, still with my clothes on, with a terrific headache. And then I found a bite mark on my chest while I was shaving. And then I asked you about it and you wouldn't tell me what happened, but seemed very offended with me about something."

"I was... I just wish you could have remembered it. I got up that morning feeling wonderful – I really thought you'd be happy to see me the next day."

Then, to her complete surprise, he said, "Emily... why didn't you tell me what happened when I came to see you in your classroom?"

"You were angry at me," she protested mildly. "I didn't think you'd want to hear it."

"Then for pity's sake, why didn't you keep at me, then?"

"Because... don't get upset, but you're kind of impossible to talk to when you're in that mood," she said quietly.

"Oh bloody hell." Severus flung back in his chair in annoyance. "Why didn't you just... throw something at me then?"

"I did – I threw my quill at you," she said, pantomiming the gesture. "Didn't faze you in the slightest."

"Well, a quill doesn't weigh anything – they're not going to work," he pointed out. "If you want to get someone's attention and make him listen, you need to throw something heavier next time. Throw the ink bottle, perhaps."

"All right, next time I will." Severus in this relaxed, blackly humorous mood was simply too delightful. She leaned forward, laid her hand on his knee under the table, and gave it a little squeeze – which made the low scent of male arousal around him spike upward again.

"Ah – I see you're already well versed in the notion of distractionary tactics," he murmured, laying his hand over hers under the table – but then she was possessed with a fit of self-consciousness, and drew it back.

"Sorry about that... I can't claim to be entirely familiar with the usual sorts of courtship etiquette in this world, or of what you're used to, but I've heard something about waiting until the third date to actually do anything, er, physical with someone," she said. "I'm... used to what you might think of as a more permissive society, you see. So if I don't know all the usual conventions you like to observe when you're involved with someone, do feel free to tell me, that would be all right." With that, she folded her hands demurely on the table.

"This is our third date," he replied. "Our first was back in September, and the second was at Midsummer."

"Oh." She hadn't thought of that at all, but now that he mentioned it, it made perfect sense. "Right. Of course it is."

"And as far as the sorts of courtship etiquette I'm used to, it tended to be rather a mixed bag." He tossed back the last bit of whiskey with a wry chuckle. "The ideal, of course, was pure Victorian, or so most of them would have you believe. The reality was much more licentious, and made complete hypocrites of everyone, but you've probably already noticed that."

"Well, I can only imagine how it must have felt to you, after coming from all that, to just be spontaneously kissed in a public callbox by someone you'd only known a few hours," she murmured ruefully. "In the past, I've always known the bloke I'm interested in for some time, sometimes years, before anything happens – I'm sorry to have been so wildly forward – "

"Please, don't apologise," he said, with a soft chuckle. "It's not like either of us did anything we didn't want to do."

"I swear that's not my usual way of doing things. I'm really not known for just groping blokes in callboxes, that was the first time for that sort of thing. It just... sort of happened."

He slanted an oblique look down at her demurely folded hands, smirking. "To be completely blunt – your forwardness wasn't what bothered me about that night. What I found most upsetting was the fact that it didn't look as though any more of the same would ever be forthcoming."

"What?" She couldn't help but laugh – oh, this man was just impossible. "Are you joking? After I met you at school, I didn't dare even suggest such a thing. Started off by maligning my poor first attempts at scholarly articles on sport fencing in schools, no less – "

"Yes, Albus put copies of some of your writings in the teacher's lounge the week before you arrived, but I didn't really make the connection until you arrived that morning, I suppose – "

"It's all right if you hated them. They were both kind of culturally naïve, I admit it."

"They were... well-intentioned," he said mildly, "well-researched – "

"Come off it, you didn't like them. And I think you would rather have had a mountain troll turn up that morning to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, truly."

"Emily." He shook his head irritably, then pushed his chair back, and stood up, then extended a hand to her and helped her out of her chair as well. "From the way this year has gone, we could trade recriminations all night." His arms encircled her waist and drew her gently against him; warmth of his skin through his clothes, strong, tantalising whiff of male lust – "Forget it. It's over."

"All right," she murmured, her arms slipping around his neck. "Shall we make a pact then? No recriminations, we'll just focus on what's happening now. At least... for awhile."

"Agreed," he said.

He was silent for some time, just looking at her, his red-black eyes glinting. His fingers traced the outline of her cheek, and then the pad of his thumb stroked lightly over her lower lip – a featherlight touch that nonetheless made her heart accelerate and vaginal muscles contract. "Emily – ?"

"Yes?"

"You're going to need to remember to breathe," he said softly.

"Right," she replied, exhaling hard.

A long, tremulous moment passed, in which they held each other silently, her head falling onto his shoulder. Emily's mind raced for something brilliantly eloquent to say, and came up with nothing. Words were dangerous; there were so many things she might say to break this truce and understanding, as she had done so often before. But her companion didn't seem content to let this moment pass in silence – "A thousand Galleons for your thoughts," he said softly, his hand coming up to gently stroke her hair. Again, that lightest of touches was electric.

"I wanted to say... no matter what's happened this year, I can't pretend what's happened between us wasn't important, because it is," she said, her arms tightening around him. "I can't stand seeing you looking so bruised and angry – if that goes on for another second I think I'll throw myself off the highest turret in this castle. I don't ever want to hurt you again, or make you feel abandoned again, because you don't deserve that and you never have. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow and I don't care – but I can't even try to ignore you anymore."

He took her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his again. The sinister brow was slightly quirked, the corner of his mouth turned up in what could only be described as a fondly ironic little grin, one that let her know she was being just a bit overdramatic, but he well understood her meaning, and as such, would humour her anyway. "All very noble sentiments," he observed dryly. "But if that's why you came here tonight, I'm afraid my answer has to be No."

"No? What?!" she wailed – very nearly whined – in dismay.

He paused, seemingly just to luxuriate in her disappointment. "No. I don't want you here because you think you have to make amends, or because you want to make me happy. Leave the bloody self-sacrifice outside – I'm sure you're sick of it by now, and so am I."

His forehead inclined to rest against hers; his hand curving gently around the back of her neck. Even in the lamplit dimness of his room, his eyes seemed bright – and now she couldn't have turned away from that gaze if her life depended on it, all she felt for him in her wide-open eyes. And – to her utter, utter delight, that ironic grin spread irresistibly over his entire face as he looked at her, and he smiled back.

"But – don't think I'm throwing you out, either," he was quick to add. "However, the only reason I want you to stay here tonight is because you haven't been able to stop obsessing about the night we met any more than I have, and now you'd like to give that another go, because it was just a smashing good time."

Well. That seemed like a truly excellent reason to do anything.

She let her head sink onto his shoulder again, and finally said what she had wanted to say to him all year –

"Please do that again."