Jehane Desrosiers

Chapter 7 – Professor Snape

I was meant for him. It was ridiculous, yet the idea persisted. And why in that way? Why wasn’t he meant for me? From wherever it had arisen, though, the answer stayed with me, as clear as it was inexplicable. Guy had been for me, and I was for Professor Snape.

Now that I wished not to see Severus Snape he appeared to be everywhere. Did he have to eat every single meal in the Great Hall? Why was he always walking around outside? Didn’t he have classes to teach? And yet, of course, I longed to see him and my stomach lurched whenever I did.

Nor did he look at me again. I wondered if he had even done so at that dizzying moment when I – what? Fell in love? Became obsessed? Maybe I had misperceived.

As I got to know the staff, their friendships and alliances, I saw that Snape stood alone except for his relationship – entirely professional – with Dumbledore. He sought no one out, sat either where expected or as far from the other staff as possible, made no conversation and repelled others’ occasional attempts to engage him. My impression of his apartness deepened. He was like one of those charmed spherical boxes, slippery black and iridescent, that have no opening.

For a thirty-five year old woman, I had very little experience of love. I had knowledge and understanding of only one thing, my marriage to Guy, and it didn’t generalize to anything else. I didn’t know about infatuation either, but if this was infatuation I expected I could wait it out. Meanwhile, I began teaching, and the engrossing process of suiting lessons to personalities provided a respite from my mysterious crush.

Sometimes out in the paddock on the weekends, I looked up to see him heading out toward the moors, and I wondered again about that moment when I had seen into him, or thought I had.

One evening I sat on the pasture fence, feeling melancholy, comforting myself with my arm around Protecteur’s neck. Twilight was about to become night, leaving only dark shapes and the yellow lights of the castle. Suddenly, Professor Snape appeared on the path from the Forbidden Forest, his robes blowing. He passed with a swish and was gone.

After several weeks I began to be accustomed to the mix of longing, excitement, sadness and indigestion surrounding the thought or presence of Professor Snape. I tried to think of it as a chronic condition requiring adaptation but not action.

Then the thing happened again. It was the night of the Halloween feast, my first big Hogwarts function, and I was as excited as the students. Two of my students, Tilda Squires and Miriam Rosen, eagerly filled me in on the protocol.

“You want to look your best,” said Tilda. “But it’s a feast, not a dance, so you want to look casual.”

“Not a fancy dress or anything,” said Miriam. “Just the everyday robes that look best on you.”

“And do some work on your hair, but don’t make it look like you did a lot of work,” said Tilda.

“Okay, that was directly aimed at me, wasn’t it?” I said, provoking fits of giggles.

“Well,” said Tilda diplomatically. “It’s beautiful hair, but usually you have other things on your mind so you don’t do much with it.”

“This is what I do with it,” I said, pointing to the bushy ponytail sticking off the back of my head. Tilda and Miriam looked at each other and giggled again. Beautiful Tilda with the thick, straight mane of wheat colored hair and the high cheekbones, and dark-eyed Miriam, only fourteen and already possessing the breasts and hips of a goddess. What did they know? But they made me smile with their earnest advice, and I promised that I would take some extra care with my hair.

I couldn’t help thinking that night, as I worked the anti-frizz and ringletting spells overlaid with stasis and a subtle spell of my own invention that produced shiny glints and the scent of lilacs, thunderstorms and vanilla, that Professor Snape would be at the feast. If my hair would behave itself – then what? Maybe he’d like it? Maybe he’d like it so much that he’d abandon his solitary state and pursue me? Not likely, but still, I did think of him.

As I joined the throngs of students streaming through the corridors toward the Great Hall, I wasn’t thinking of love, but of how lovely it was to be part of this tradition, to have my own seat at the head table and to look forward to Hagrid’s conversation.

The decorations were breathtaking. At one side of the Great Hall stood an enormous tree, several spans around and stories high, branches spread to roof the entire room. Only a few leaves clung to them, and through the black latticework shone the constellations of the autumn sky. Two ravens in the lower limbs added their raucous cries to the excited chatter of the students, and dry leaves skittered on the floor in an illusory autumn wind. Even the tables had been transfigured into products of the forest, each balanced on four sturdy trunks and set with tableware in the shapes of acorns and twigs. Like everyone else, I stopped as I entered to exclaim and appreciate each decoration.

Professor Snape stood nearly hidden in the shadows under the great trunk. He watched the merriment with a grim expression. Then he turned, our eyes met, and it was as if he had spoken a hundred pleas, demands and explanations directly into my ear, so loudly that I jerked my head back. For a long moment, we froze.

“Madame Desrosiers, do I have dirt on my nose?” he said. “You are staring at me.” Without waiting for an answer, he spied some student infraction and launched himself into the fray.

He didn’t know. It was there but he didn’t know.

The feast was delicious – pumpkin soup served in real pumpkins, crispy pork or chicken and pan-roasted autumn vegetables, French beans, acorn squash with maple syrup, apple tart, and for the adults, a full-bodied Bordeaux. Hagrid – who was a wonderful gossip if you got him going – gave me useful rundowns on the wizarding antecedents of some students as well as history of the staff.

“You said that Professor Snape was some sort of hero in the war,” I asked casually. “What did he do, exactly?”

Hagrid’s face lit up. “’Ee was a double agent, thass what,” he said. “You-know-who thought ‘ee ‘ad planted ‘im at Hogwarts ter give ‘im information. A spy, see? But ‘ee was working fer Dumbledore all the time. ‘Invaluable ter the cause,’ thass what Dumbledore told the Daily Prophet when it was all over. An’ the worst part of it was, everbody ‘ere suspected ‘im all the time. Of bein’ a Death Eater still, see?”

“Mmm,” I said. “So they mistrusted him, all during the struggle with Voldemort?”

“Thass righ’”

“Suited him, though, don’t you think?” I asked.

Hagrid looked meditative. “Yeh, I guess it did.”

Then I thought I’d better change the subject, and we talked of our chances of adding a young hippogriff to the stable come summer.

That night as I prepared for bed I pondered what I might make of my new understanding. Was it something practical or magical? It didn’t feel like magic. Or rather, it did -- not human magic, not something worked, but something deeper, like life itself. Did I even want to have him? It was sure to bring heartache, and I was just getting myself on an even keel.

Oh, but who was I kidding. I thought about him every hour, fully aware that I didn’t know who he was and wouldn’t be at peace until I did. Even if it turned out badly, I had to try. And what if that strange understanding was beneficent, and might turn out well for both? If we were meant to find each other I’d have to get us into more contact, whether he welcomed me or not.

Early Saturday morning there was frost on the pumpkins behind Hagrid’s hut and the air was filled with the scent of leaf mold. Hagrid’s irregular snores shook the window panes; I promised myself to stop and beg a cup of tea if he was up when I returned.

The stable, too, seemed sleepy. Filleambre, also snoring, rested her head on her crossed forelegs, but Protecteur was awake and gave a welcoming cry as I entered.

“Good boy. You get the first ride for being an early riser,” I said. He scratched eagerly at the stall door. I brought him outside to the pasture where he could get a running start into the air, then climbed the ladder to the platform Hagrid had constructed on the stable roof.

There, I bowed. These mannerisms, so long a part of our friendship, had acquired a rich subtext, and I gave him a flirtatious knowing look – “Do I still have to ask?” A hippogriff’s face is unexpressive; all must be communicated by posture. Protecteur kneeled for me, but I imagined something of a teasing mock-forbearance in the way his head was cocked and one foreleg came down before the other.

As I seated myself, I saw Snape just passing through the gates. He was heading toward the moors. He must be an insomniac; it was barely six a.m. Well, I was up at 5:56 to observe him. So.

We made a long straight run over the open land, keeping deliberately to the south. I didn’t want him to look up and see us and felt certain I could find him again in the bare landscape. I gave Protecteur his head, leaning down to enjoy the strumming of his wing beats through my legs. He flew for a long while then executed some lazy circles, banking to left and right. I saw that he was ready for a rest; I was ready to look for Snape.

We followed his trajectory from the gates. He’d gone surprisingly far; I judged he was four miles along when we spotted him. I brought us down farther along his path, keeping Protecteur with me for moral support.

I had a sudden brainstorm. I couldn’t put a spell on Snape; without permission it was rude and what is more, he would certainly know. But I might try one on myself. I whipped my wand from my robes and uttered a quick Repirire, a mild revealing spell. It made my skin cold, as if the wind were blowing through a thin sweater. I was just tucking my wand away when he appeared down the path. I buried my face in Protecteur’s feathered neck for a moment. He pushed me away with his beak.

Closer. Certainly he would have to acknowledge that I was standing here.

He had very longs legs and he walked as if the hounds of Hell were following. I drew in a breath to speak, and then he stopped.

“Madame Desrosiers.”

“Hello.” I smiled, and found that despite my terrible nervousness, I was happy as well.

He gave me a long, appraising stare down his nose, eyes slitted, and I had a good idea of the terror he must elicit in the Potions classroom. I felt like a bug on a pin, even though I knew it was Repirire making him look at me like that; he was seeing, I hoped, some of what I had felt.

“Do I have dirt on my nose, Professor Snape?”

“Excuse me. You seem familiar. I was trying to remember where I had seen your face.”

“Well, I have been at dinner with you for five weeks. Perhaps you knew me then?” I teased.

“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “I have interrupted your exercise. Good day.” And he turned to go.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “I’m sorry for teasing. May I walk along with you?” I thought for a moment that he would continue without another word. Instead he half turned for a second, and there it was, that electrical connection in our gaze, but this time I could see that he was disturbed by it. His lips worked a moment before he answered.

“If you like,” he said.

“Thanks.” I whistled Protecteur into the air and told him to follow.

Strangely, it was not hard to chat, as I had already decided that there was nothing I could or should do to shape his impression of me. Nor did I expect to get anything much from him, so I told him about the stables and the new hippogriffs and the ones I had brought with me. He seemed to be letting me natter, but his occasional question was astute; nothing was wasted on this man.

After an hour, Protecteur returned, a bloody weasel dangling from his beak.

“Isn’t that lovely,” I said. “Aren’t you a fierce hunter. Isn’t he a regular tiger, Professor Snape?” Protecteur came to my side and dropped the little corpse, then settled down to chew off its head.

He gave me a sideways, mocking look. “I hope you are not going to set him in your lap.”

“No. But I should take him home. I have to take Serrebrune out and he’s tired. Thanks for the walk.” I started to lead Protecteur to an outcropping of rocks that could give us a launch.

“Stop.” He used the threatening voice I had heard in the halls, piercing and low, and I stopped at once.

“Do you come out here every Saturday morning?” he asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Then I’ll see you here next week.” He withdrew a pocket watch from inside his frock coat. “I’ll be here by seven.”

“Out here by these rocks?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. That would be great. I’m looking forward to it.” Protecteur leapt to the top of the rocks. I bowed, he kneeled, and we took off. I gave Snape a little wave, but he was already striding away, head down.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought he had asked me out on a date. Not a dozen roses, but it was a lot more than I had expected.

To my amazement, we kept on, every Saturday morning by the rocks. He didn’t ask; he told me to come.

It was always the same thing, and I grew accustomed to the pattern. We started out at a fast clip, Snape’s comments chilly and perfunctory, sarcastic or dismissive in turn. Once we had put half an hour’s walk between ourselves and Hogwarts we slowed slightly and he might inquire, “Have you been well, Madame Desrosiers?” or ask after the griffs or my work with students. We chatted amiably about the many little goings-on inherent in a system like Hogwarts. He was a good judge of character and motivation when his own animosities were uninvolved. It was he who pointed out that Minerva McGonagall knew as much as Headmaster Dumbledore about the school community and that if I needed information or assistance I should go to her, as she was less invested than he in manipulating the staff and students. Yet he bore a grudge against Remus Lupin, a dear fellow who often stopped to chat with me against the paddock fence and bore no resemblance to the devious demon Snape described.

After an hour or so, we usually stopped and sat for a short while, sometimes in a scenic spot. The moors around Hogwarts were crisscrossed with hundreds of tracks; after the first month of these walks I gave up trying to stay oriented.

“How do you do it?” I asked. “You always get us back and never by the same way. After half an hour I never know where we are.”

“I assure you,” he answered, giving me a look. “It is a natural, non-magical talent. Any Muggle who had spent as much time as I out here could do as well.”

“Not me,” I said. “And I still admire you.”

Over the course of winter and into early spring we walked every Saturday. In time, we added an occasional weekday afternoon, just before dinner. In the coldest weather we bundled up in heavy cloaks, waterproof boots and warming spells. He pressed on with savage intensity as if the icy wind were a personal affront. Once, walking backward against the blast, we grinned at each other.

We talked about the landscape, about useful herbs and plants on the Hogwarts grounds, about potions and about magical history and magical creatures and the one thing I knew more about than he -- the relations between human beings and hippogriffs. One topic led to another and we found many areas of common interest. But anything I said about myself dropped into a conversational void. It was like playing tennis with a ball that sometimes vanished in midair.

Discovering a patch of wild grapes, I told him, “I grew up on a vineyard. But we didn’t use the grapes. My father grew hardwood.”

Silence. Then, “Shall we take that turning by the scrub oaks? It leads to a lovely pond.”

Isn’t it strange that you can learn so much about someone without being told? I built an entire Severus Snape in my mind during these walks, yet learned not to show too clearly what I knew; it guided me from a distance and helped me be kind and careful. I saw the envy in his contempt and disparagement of other people and recognized the intense, competitive outsider from the Quidditch Room photo. Something had happened long before Hogwarts that made it hard for him to connect, so proud of his intellect and so protective and ashamed of the rest. Sometimes a random comment of mine would sink him into a funk and we would walk in silence for a grim hour. Yet under it all I sensed -- and prayed desperately to be correct -- an unquenched desire for happiness, and it was on that I pinned my hopes.

Sometime in those months that went from grey and rainy to cold and snowy to the first scented stirrings of spring I recognized that it was love. So different from how I had loved Guy, when love held the promise of finally beginning, when it made me a woman, when I imagined it was simple. Loving Snape was complex. I suffered for him yet couldn’t offer comfort, nor did his pain seem in reach of my help. In loving him I was inviting some of the darkest parts of experience – rejection, misery, rage, bitterness – yet I was compelled to claim him because I alone saw that he belonged with me; if there was one thing I could do in life, it was to make this right.

As the days got longer we sometimes stayed out past dinner on a Wednesday or Thursday. I came by myself and we met at the school gates. He gave me no sign that these peregrinations were enjoyable to him. After each one, after each curt “Good evening,” at the gates (for, in a reversal of the heading-out pattern, he walked faster and grew more distant as we approached the school again), I reasoned with myself. He wouldn’t suffer fools gladly, so if he came out with me, he must want to.

One Saturday morning I took a break from mucking out stalls to breathe the spring air and look out over the grounds. Because they are carnivorous, the business of cleaning up after hippogriffs is especially unpleasant in warm weather. Hagrid was tending to a young brood of Blast-Ended Screwts in a breeding box nearby and came up to join me as I leaned on my shovel. Through a screen of pink cherry blossoms, we could see Professor Snape on the road to the moors.

“Jehane –“ Hagrid cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yeh – Yeh’re not startin’ to care for ‘im, I hope.”

“It’s a little late to turn back, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hagrid said. “’Ee’s a fine man, and ‘ee’d be right lucky to have yeh. It’s just – yeh know – ‘ee’s not the type for it.”

“I know. It’s going to end in tears. Well,” I said, acting a bravery I didn’t feel. “At least you’ll be here to pick up the pieces with strong tea and those tasty rock cakes.” Hagrid’s ruddy face creased into a smile at my expression of confidence.

“’At’s right, Missy, yeh can count on old Hagrid to stand by yeh in time of need.”

And then on one perfect spring Sunday our outward trek lasted longer than usual. It was one of those days when brilliant clouds like lumps of whipped cream are bullied about the sky by gusts. Every tree shook its green buds, and we walked over carpets of crocuses, snowdrops and periwinkles. We came to a large outcropping of licheny old rock. I wondered if it were left by a glacier; I made a mental note to ask him about it, as he surely knew.

“I brought us cheese sandwiches,” I said. “Are you hungry? Let’s sit on the rocks.” For a moment he seemed nonplussed; we had never snacked before.

“No, I’m not hungry,” he said. “But I’ll sit with you if you like.” And he leapt from rock to rock like a mountain goat until he stood at the top.

My approach was less graceful and the last step too steep for me to get a purchase on with my leather soles. I ended up wiggling over the edge and lying like a beached mermaid at his feet. He could have offered me his hand, I thought, but he’s too damn stiff. I got up, dusted myself off, and took in the scene below us -- clouds stretching to the horizon and moors wandering off to meet them in swathes of dusky purple, sage green and gray, dotted by stands of scrub pine and groupings of rock like islands in a vegetable sea. The air was alive with flowery, earthy smells that washed over us in waves, commanding us to breathe deeply.

I took a deep breath and filled myself with contentment. From the corner of my eye I could see his black hair whipping in the wind. We were gazing in the same direction.

This was enough. I loved, and I was happy. In the future I might cry again, be bereft again, but I would always have this day, these clouds, these black strands dancing against the sky. I closed my eyes, put my face up to the sun, and smiled. He was here with me, and if I didn’t have his love, I had my own for him. Enough.

When I opened my eyes he was looking at me. His face was, for a moment – what? – unarranged, and then it came back together in a familiar stern and appraising look. “A lovely day,” he said, as if it weren’t.

Yes,” I said. “A beautiful day.” But a thrill of power and pleasure ran through me. He saw me, and no magic about it. “Now, will you have a cheese sandwich?”

He lowered himself to sit cross legged on the rock. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “I believe I will.”

After that I started bringing snacks and meals every time. It was amazing how much he could eat once he got started. I made a game of tempting him. One day as we sat again on the rocks he ate a ham and cheese sandwich on a baguette, four figs, a ripe pear, a pecan twirl, a bottle of fizzy lemon and half a packet of chocolate Tasty Spell biscuits.

“You like to eat,” I ventured.

He gave a snort of disgust. “I suppose I do. It’s more that if I don’t eat constantly I lose weight. I have the metabolism of a damned hummingbird.”

I laughed out loud – because it was funny and because he had told me something personal.

“Thanks for sharing,” I said, half seriously, packing up the picnic hamper and shrinking it.

He looked at me suspiciously; maybe he thought I was laughing at him. “You find the world a rather humorous place.”

“No.”

“Why wouldn’t you? You seem to have had a charmed life.”

“You’re uninformed,” I said. “You must know that I’m a widow.”

His eyes flicked to the white stripe on my left hand where my wedding ring had been until the month before. “I thought you were divorced.”

“No.” It surprised me; I thought the gossip chain would have extended that far.

“You took off your ring last month. Why?”

I was unprepared for that question. My turn to prevaricate.

“I didn’t want to think about it anymore.”

June came, with long days and soft breezes. As the school year drew to a close, the pace of student life picked up and we were hard-pressed to get in a hike. Professor Snape was supervising several activities of his House to culminate during the last week of school, and two of my riding students were preparing for a competition. Although they were just beginners, the wizarding equivalent of pony club girls, I wanted them used to competition. What is more, they would be the only ones at the meet on Unroped animals, and I hoped to garner some publicity for Hippogriff Rescue and our techniques.

Snape and I hadn’t been out in two weeks. I was startled to look up one Saturday morning and see him standing outside the ring. We had always communicated by Floo or note; in fact, he had never seen me work, and he seemed out of place on the paddock dirt in his faultlessly shined black boots.

My best rider was in the air, so I waved at him to wait until I finished with her.

“Good seat, Kelly! Bring her down now.” Serrebrune made a wide circle in the air as Kelly indicated her wishes by shifting her weight and leaning forward. The hippogriff’s hooves cantered in the air, anticipating her touchdown. As she came down, Kelly bounced slightly, then rode her at an easy pace around the ring. She brought her mount to a stop and I came forward to give her a few corrections, then I sent her to brush and stable the griff.

Knowing Snape as I did, I guessed that it had been hard for him to come to me, and wondered at it.

“Hi. It’s good to see you,” I said, as easily as I could with my heart hammering, as it often did on first sight. Ever since the day we ate together on the rocks I had intuited that whatever power I possessed, whatever chance I had of holding on to myself, consisted of my wholehearted pleasure in him, my willingness to be happy with the side of the equation that belonged solely to me. I let my happiness show these days, and I felt better for it.

“And yourself. MacKenzie has broken her wrist, and since she is the author and star of the Slytherin end-of-year play, we are taking a hiatus from rehearsals.” His expression made clear what he thought of star, play, rehearsals and festivities. “I’m taking the opportunity to walk out this afternoon. I thought if you weren’t otherwise engaged, you might care to join me.”

“I am absolutely not otherwise engaged, starting now. Just let me get out of these dirty things.” I raced up to my rooms, canceled my afternoon student by floo and changed my clothes.

The walk began pleasantly enough. I wore my lightest robes over a tank top and cotton pants, expecting the day to grow hotter. Professor Snape wore his usual costume of black frock coat over long pants, although as a concession to the season, the wool was of a lighter weight. I briefly considered teasing him about the coat, but left off the idea.

“I cannot imagine how you teach these hooligans and ignoramuses to ride a hippogriff, especially without a collar,” he remarked sourly.

“Well, as I’ve said, it’s a heuristic process,” I answered. “So it’s not really teaching, it’s facilitating. I get them started and give them permission to have a relationship with the griff. Once they begin riding, the griff corrects them with its behavior. Sometimes I coach them in the relationship. But remember, these are kids who want to ride and love animals. I don’t know if I could do it with a different kind.”

“Mm. You give them permission how?”

“For the relationship? Let me think about it.” I took some time as we went on.

“I guess I let them know it’s supposed to be a relationship,” I said. “Not ownership, or just physical mastery like other sports. And I show them how the griff is waiting to meet them halfway. In case they miss the signal.”

“I suppose that kind of child doesn’t often miss the signal,” he said, and I wondered if it was wistfulness I heard in his voice.

“We all miss the signal sometimes. And we all need it.” For a moment I pictured Guy’s tender smile; it was something he would have said. I had learned from him so many of the phrases that nurture and include people.

We walked silently, each with his own thoughts, for some time. I remembered a day like this when Guy and I first knew each other, a long walk. I wondered what he would think of my choices. Guy would have liked Snape; he had great patience for proud, injured creatures, the same loving kindness he had shown me.

We were slowing down.

“Are you getting hot? You might unbutton your coat.”

“No,” he answered. “I’m fine.” I looked at him carefully. He was paler than usual, and squinting against the sunlight, almost wincing.

“You don’t look fine. What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I have a slight headache. It’s nothing. I have a potion for it in my rooms.”

“Shall we turn around?” I said. “We could get back in about forty minutes. Or we could Apparate outside the gates, if your head could take it.”

“I’d rather not. It’s pleasant to be outside.”

“Not pleasant for you,” I said. He shook his head dismissively, but gingerly.

How does one know when to move toward another? There’s no mystery to it – only the culmination of a hundred smaller communications. I felt absolutely certain of myself at that moment.

“Come on,” I said. “I know what you need.”

“Really, it’s not necessary.”

“But I want to. Come on.” And steeling myself for disaster, I took his arm.

He started, but didn’t pull away. Up on a knoll was a grove of tall pines that we had passed many times. I had wondered at them, standing so separately as if they had been planted there for some Druidic purpose. Steering him gently by the elbow, I headed Snape in that direction.

“It’s a very minor headache,” he protested. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“You look like Hell,” I said. “Just let me do something for you, for a change.”

“What can you do? I really prefer not to be the recipient of anyone’s healing spells,” he said bitterly. “Although I am sure you are a competent Healer.”

“No, you are not sure of my competence, and I would never dare direct a spell at you. I’m just going to rub your head.”

I suppose the idea of letting someone touch him was so alarming that he was struck dumb, for the conversation ended there.

The grove was wonderfully cool after the hot sun, pine scented and carpeted thickly with needles. I chose a tree without knobs or runnels of sticky sap and sat with my back against it, legs outstretched. He stood looking down at me, a dark column among the trunks. With a feeling of “Here goes,” I put my hands up.

“Come on, give me your poor head.”

Awkwardly, avoiding my eyes, he folded himself up like a black umbrella. He lay down and fumbled with the arrangement of his arms and legs. Finally he was stretched out at a right angle to me and I took his head in my hands.

This might be the only time I would ever touch him, I thought. I settled his head in my lap and just held it for a moment. His body was rigid, his fingers laced tightly over his chest.

His hair was like a thick liquid, the strands very fine but plentiful, and slightly dirty. I worked my fingers through it along his scalp, releasing his scent, and bent my head to catch it. As I pulled his hair up at the roots a faint inadvertent sigh passed his lips, and I smiled. I warmed his forehead with my hand, then rubbed it in slow gentle circles, moving on to his temples, his cheekbones and the tight muscles of his jaw. I closed my eyes and leaned back, letting my hands know him. Above us, a bird flew from tree to tree, an unmistakable feathery sound.

This might be the only time and I wanted it to last forever. More gently I traced the wings of his nostrils and the deep grooves from nose to mouth. I ran my fingertips along the ends of his lashes and gently stroked the crinkled skin around his eyes. I lifted his head slightly and massaged the back of his neck, letting the weight of his head pull it back against my hands.

He mistook my meaning and made to rise. “Stay,” I said, and placed his head again in my lap. “Stay with me. This is all I want to do right now.”

This time he was heavier, more relaxed. His fingers unclasped on his chest. I returned to all the features I had touched before – forehead, temples, cheekbones, jaw, eyes – but this time caressing them lightly. At his throat I hesitated, then undid the top button of his coat. I gathered up his hair, pulling it gently, then combing my fingers through it.

A lazy hour passed this way.

His face looked different now, softer. Its lines were shallower and the habitually drawn brows were at rest. His lips were slightly parted. We breathed in harmony. One of my hands cupped his jaw and stroked his cheek with its thumb; the other gently twined in his hair. I closed my eyes again. I felt us resting together, at peace.

My leg was asleep. I shifted a little, then surprised myself by speaking.

“I want to tell you something,” I said.

“I love you with all my heart. I will happily go on walks with you for the rest of my life, and we can leave it at that. Or if you want to be close to someone, if you want to love and be loved, here I am.

“But Severus –“ It was my first use of his given name. “I know how it is with you. It can only happen if you make the choice. Then you will walk through the fire. Otherwise, you won’t keep on. It’s just too scary.”

I wondered if he knew what I meant; I myself had only found my meaning as I spoke. Then I wondered if he was asleep, so long a time passed.

“I don’t mean to push you,” I continued. “We can just go on like this, or at least, I think I can. But I want you to know what is here for you, if you choose.” I don’t know how I had the courage to offer myself like this. Perhaps I already knew the answer. He mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“What?”

“It’s too late to choose,” he said softly. “I’m in too deep.” A thrill ran through me.

“I didn’t know. Do you – care for me?”

A long pause. His eyes were still closed. “Yes.” He caught my hand and held it.

I took it away.

“You still must choose. I know this as well as I know anything. If you choose, you will discipline yourself to love.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I know how it is with you. You don’t trust anybody. You stay away from people. They scare you half to death. You’re nasty. Even if you want me, you’ll want to bolt.

“But you are disciplined. If you choose this, you’ll stick to it. You’ll overcome obstacles. I don’t want you ever to feel that you were trapped, even by your own feelings.

“So decide, and choose. Then we can go forward.”

“You do know me,” he said.

With one swift graceful movement, he sat up and faced me, eyes glittering, only inches away. It frightened me a bit. Strangely, we were both breathing heavily.

“I choose, then,” he said passionately. “I choose to love you, and – I choose your love.”

“All right then,” I said. “All right.”

How had we gone so quickly from that dreamy state to this feeling of a struggle just concluded?

We stared at each other, panting and flushed. I think we were afraid to kiss, but finally we found each other’s lips with a sigh. His were very soft. It was a chaste little kiss, like the signing of a pact, but it made me tremble.

The shadows had begun to lengthen as we came down the hillock from the grove. It was cooling off. Severus paused for a moment to give me a twitch of the eyebrow and a self-mocking little smirk, then ceremoniously draped his arm around my shoulder. I imagined what he must have been like as a teenager, tall and agile, angry and bitter, and I felt a rush of tenderness for that boy in his dueling whites.

“What were you like at sixteen?” I asked.

“Miserable,” he answered. “I would never have talked to a beautiful girl like you.”

That was a stunner. Me, the albino rabbit. Then I thought of that miserable boy and hugged him around the waist.

“I would have talked to you,” I said. “If I had any sense.” We walked on like that, arms around each other, and I pretended to myself that we were sixteen and each other’s first loves.

“When did you –“ He stumbled over this a little. “When did you – develop this feeling for me?”

“Maybe at first sight.” I laughed. “I didn’t know it was love, but I was wildly attracted to you from the beginning. Do you remember when our eyes met at the Halloween feast? I chased you on Protecteur, the day we first really met, just to get a chance.”

He glanced at me sideways. “I remember you staring at me. You must be mad. I’ve never inspired that sort of response.”

“I suspect you have. You just missed it. So when did you --?”

“The day we climbed the rocks. Until then, I didn’t know. I thought it was intellectual companionship -- and it is -- but not – the rest.”

“What was it about that day? That made you – realize?” I asked.

“It came on me all of a sudden. You were standing at the top of the rocks and smiling. You had your eyes closed. Suddenly I knew that you were happy with me, that I was part of your happiness. I can’t explain it, Jehane – what that was like. I’ve not made many people happy. And when I saw that, I realized that you were part of my happiness as well.

“Frankly,” and here I heard the dour Severus I was more used to, “It was awful. I nearly was sick.”

“Vertigo,” I said. “You shouldn’t undergo such rapid expansions of consciousness.”

“No,” he said. “Fear.”

“Of course,” I replied. “And when did you know that I loved you?”

“Just now. When you took my head in your hands.”

“Then I intend to do this every day,” I said, running my fingers through his hair.

As we grew closer to school, he dropped his arm. Our pace increased and the easy conversation dried up. He buttoned his top button decisively.

“Bye,” I said, although we were fifteen minutes from the castle. He looked at me quizzically and I gestured at the button.

“Mm,” he grunted. “Madame Desrosiers. This Wednesday, perhaps, weather permitting?”

“Weather permitting.” Then I leaned forward and kissed him again, even though we were just minutes from home.