The moon hung low on the horizon, the crescent shape barely visible through the mist that counted for clouds across the sky. In the east, dawn would be breaking soon, but for now, the sky still refused to pale, the barest of twinkling against the deep blue the only other light it bore. A breeze blew from the south, stirring leaves clinging to trees, swirling her hair around her as she stood, a glass of fine red wine in her hand, atop a high tower, observing the sight with appreciative eyes.
It was a ritual that was, frighteningly, becoming a nightly occurrence as of late.
Selene Sinistra had finished her observations an hour before, writing her notes on parchment scrolls with a script that, like everything else about her, was striking, elegant, and sharp. Until the haze had blown into the sky, she'd had a fine view of distant stars, trailing a comet that barely came into focus, its distance belying its importance. While her field was astronomy itself, exploring the actual physical existence and affects of the world beyond her own, astrologists would be exalting this comet's arrival; at such an important time, it surely held portents of hope or fear.
However, the cloud cover eventually obstructed the view, and she gave up, walking up to the open area of the tower itself, her wine in hand, letting her hair down from the knot she always wore it in when teaching or researching, heedless of the wind's toying with the locks. The swirl of her hair was as much a part of her nightly ritual as was the glass of wine. Both reminded her of her childhood; of sitting on rocks by a lonely sea after sundown, letting her hair down, much to her mother's chagrin, the salty breeze inevitably tangling it into an unmanageable mess, the sight of grapes on vines going off into the distance as she looked along the coastline.
The wine in her hand came from her family's vineyard, sent every month to her, along with other parcels from her mother or brothers. A small taste of home, of Sicilian slopes and olive trees, of the Mediterranean, blue skies and bluer waves. It never ceased to amaze her how her mother had chosen southern Italy as home. Especially given her lack of appreciation for sunlight.
Should be grateful, girl. At least you can taste the sun, however briefly at a time it is.
She took another sip of the wine, letting the flavor of the grapes rest on her tongue, appreciating her brothers' skills with its making. Her brothers all inherited their mother's hands-on approach to life, learning how to coax the grapes into perfection and press them into such captivating mixtures, all the while mocking her love for the written word. She'd evidentially inherited her father's intellect – she wouldn't know, since he'd been gone all her life. She took her mother's word for it.
It had been writing that made her fall in love with the heavens.
She could still remember discovering Poe's work, at ten, sitting in a dusty bookshop frequented by both wizards and Muggles in her village, falling in love with the words, first in Italian, then again in English. For some reason, she felt drawn to his imagery, words taking on nuances that they had never done before. And, of course, once reading these words, she started spending her nights star-gazing under clear sky, imagining the moon shining down upon her, bringing her dreams of her own, envisioning stars that watched her every move. Dreaming of, someday, becoming someone's Annabel Lee. Romantic child-like stargazing led to academic interest. Academic interest led to intellectual pursuit. Intellectual pursuit led her to this tower, to a glass growing empty, a horizon barely showing a hint of lightness, and long hair whipped around her face and shoulders.
Another sip of wine. Another thought passing through her mind. Thirty-five she was now. Another year, surviving in this world, not quite a part of it. Sometimes, she ached from the lack of companionship, of belonging, of fitting in with others. At these times, Selene felt a pull towards something indescribable, some deep need she couldn't name and could barely describe. Then an owl from her family would arrive, or she'd make the mistake of joining colleagues for a meal in the Great Hall, or watch her students from the tower windows, and change her mind. She didn't need companions, after all. Books were her friends, telescopes and star charts her companions, scrolls and quills her confidants. They never acted childish or petty, they never mocked her, they never acted as if they had ulterior motives.
They certainly didn't fear her. Loathe her. Hurt her.
She brought the glass to her lips again, suddenly coming out of her reverie when she realized nothing touched her tongue. Pulling her hand back, she found the glass empty, the last trace of red wine gone. That was the usual sign that it was time to return to the real world. With a heavy sigh, she led her feet down stone steps, leaving the tower behind, searching for her apartments. She had papers left to grade in her study before finally falling asleep, and she'd eventually need more than the wine to sustain her.
Dawn was slowly breaking in the East when he rose, although from the complete lack of windows in his apartment, he'd never know without a clock. Living in the dungeons, near enough to the house of students whose care was his responsibility, meant giving up on certain things, such as an actual open window. However, the perks made it agreeable. His personal workroom was only a few steps away, the study in this set of apartments was unusually spacious, and the heavier brick drowned out most noise.
Besides, so few people came down here that, except for his students, he rarely had to deal with people. That suited him perfectly.
With a stretch of his long, limber frame, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold air that came with the dungeons chilling his bare chest and arms for a moment. Ignoring the coolness, as he did daily, he strode into his small kitchen, conjuring a strong cup of coffee and reaching for a small chunk of bread. His usual breakfast, since much more tended to addle his brain early in the day. Carrying both to his living room, he settled into a black leather recliner, the aroma of the dark Russian blend wafting in the air.
If only my students could see me now. Maybe they wouldn't think so harshly of me.
Few were the pleasures in Severus Snape's life, but those small indulgences were treasured, such as the leather chair that sat nestled between two large bookcases, filled to overflowing capacity with titles ranging from academic tomes on alchemy, potions, and combative magic to titles from Muggle masters such as Tolstoy, Shakespeare, and Poe. These books, all well-read, marked in places with marginal notes and underlined sentences, had become the closest things he had to true friends over the last fifteen years.
Well, it's not exactly as if you go out of your way to make friends with living, breathing individuals, you know.
The truth of his inner voice couldn't be denied. It was more than true. It had almost become his mantra over his lifetime. Keep the world at an arm's distance, for it makes it easier to see their lies. It was probably the only reason he was still alive.
Sometimes, he wished he could get his hands on a time-turner, if only for ten minutes, so he could smack some level of sense into his younger self and undo mistakes that he regretted making. However, he knew the consequences of such actions. Besides, changing the course of the future was not wise, especially over something as asinine as a childhood regret.
Only you would call that thing on your arm a 'childhood regret'.
Once, in his fourth year of teaching here, Trelawney had once drank too much at a small Christmas celebration for the faculty, and had made the mistake of asking him why he never wore shorter sleeves. It was the only time in history he could recall seeing Albus Dumbledore in a state of shock, actually choking on his sherry. His only reply had been that living in Slytherin's dungeons required sleeves at all times and had left.
He hadn't attended a staff party since that night.
Sipping on the brew, Severus reflected on the day ahead, as had become his morning tradition. Wake, drink coffee and wake up, make a mental list of the day's requirements, and then start to become presentable to the rest of the world.
First, I need to finish grading the sixth years' essays. Or, what they're passing as essays this year. The drivel some of them are handing in is enough to turn my hair grey. I need to have that word with McGonagall finally about the next Hogsmeade weekend. I refuse to play chaperone three times in a row. There are FOUR heads of house, not just one. Work on that article for the next 'Alchemist Review'. I want to get it submitted in the next few days; surely this rewrite will be approved. Teach, unfortunately. Double session today with the second years. At least I'll be able to merely sit and watch instead of lecture for most of that time…
The reverie continued for another few minutes, until bringing the cup to his lips and not feeling hot liquid made him realize his mug was empty. With a groan, he lurched upright, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone as he made his way back to his bedroom, reluctantly ready to begin his day.
A soft hooting woke her.
Groaning, Selene rubbed her eyes, pulling open the bedcurtains that she closed every morning as she fell to sleep. She always left the side window open in case of an owl's arrival, and although the light didn't fall on the bed, it would wake her. Bad enough she rarely got enough sleep, she wouldn't sacrifice what little she could grasp.
Pulling them apart with a gasp of pain as light flooded to blind her, she stared at the grey owl, sitting on her bedside table, letter still grasped in its beak. Squinting, she saw the blood-red seal. A bunch of grapes under a half-moon.
And let's see which brother decided to write me THIS time. Please let it be Marcus. He has sense, at least.
Pulling the curtains closed again, hearing the flutter of wings fly away, she cracked the seal.
The first stroke of ink on paper told her it wasn't the sensible Marcus.
Damn, Claudius. It's too early in the day to read your ramblings.
Her eyes scanned the parchment, barely registering the usual boring jibberish about the harvest or the season or the fact that Aurelius finally asked the girl down in the village to dinner. In fact, she was almost asleep again, the words boring her beyond belief, when one sentence shocked her to full awareness. The rest of the letter made her sit up, her jaw fallen in shock.
As your eldest brother, Selene, I beg you to remember that your current employer is not in the greatest of standing with mine. In fact, I encourage you to come home and be with your family, now more than ever. This is not the time for foolish pride or careless devotion to a silly hobby. You can stare at stars and scribble on parchment here. Come back, Selene, before the war takes away your chance. Mama needs the family whole, and it cannot be without our baby sister.
She flung open the bedcurtains and crumpled the parchment, tossing it across the room and hissing at the pain the light brought to her eyes. With a snap of her fingers, the curtains closed, returning the room to a tolerable degree of light. Chimes from the faraway clock tower told her she might as well rise and begin her day, even though her inner voice begged for another hour of slumber.
Begrudgingly, Selene left the warmth of her bed, the chill of the late fall air pouring in from the open window, filling the room, barely touching her. Years of nightly observations from an open tower had made her accustomed to the cold, and fresh air was one of the benefits of living so high in the castle.
Eyes stared back at her in her mirror as she took down the braid that held her hair back; eyes a shade too brown to be black, hair a shade too black to be brown.
Her mother's eyes. Her mother's hair.
Not a trace of the man who'd fathered her.
The last time she'd been home had been three years ago. The resemblance had been uncanny. Julius had been hard-put to tell them apart. It was as if she'd been copied by a Renaissance artist from her mother's portrait. The resemblance was made even more gut-wrenching when one considered Adriana Sinistra was more than twice her daughter's age.
One day, she would look older than her own mother.
With the heavy thought hanging over her head, she stepped into her shower, the hot water hitting her like needles, the mist swirling like the fog of painful thoughts in her own mind.
Parchment littered his desk, most covered with hastily-scrawled answers to essay questions, some smudged or covered in sloppy ink droppings. He loathed the condition in which many of his students' assignments were presented, and today he loathed it more than usual. He was growing tired. Tired of the useless futility, tired of the headaches and the stomachaches and the sleepless nights, trying to balance so many responsibilities and obligations.
Responsibility to his students. To the Order. To Dumbledore. To himself.
It was growing weary.
The candles flickered in the room, a small clock on the wall letting him know of the time. Five in the afternoon. Most of the students would be finished with classes, running rampant, leaving this room his one place to escape them until dinner time.
And, of course, the delightful little meeting with the Headmaster.
Oh, how he hated those meetings. Filled with some level of concern from Dumbledore. Some declaration, some reminder of everything he risked, doing his part. He didn't want reminders, didn't need them.
He lived with a reminder that would never go away.
Severus knew damned good and well the charade was over. Lucius would tell Voldemort everything. The coincidences, too many to ignore. The times they'd gone drinking to reminisce about old times. The secrets Lucius would let slip. The actions of the Order within days. The mere fact that he taught at Hogwarts still, instead of having left to report immediately to his 'master' had caused enough red flags that he'd had to find ways to work around and placate people who needed placating. It didn't matter that he'd already made his apologies to his Lord himself; others would never forgive him. Coupled with what was inevitably to come…
The headmaster had a right to be concerned. Severus knew that, in some part of his mind. It wasn't random events that had brought the two together. Dumbledore may have sought him out, knowing he was the one most likely to be convinced, but in the end, it was his own conscience that won out.
And some people say I don't have one. Little do they know…
It was his own damned conscience that almost got him killed all those years ago. His damned conscience was why he was still here.