AN: 1) I originally wrote and posted this on FictionAlley after HBP; now, obviously, it is AU, but I liked it enough to put it here. (I took most of my stuff off FA).

2) I think I'm the only Snape/Rosmerta shipper in existence. :(

The sky grew darker. The wind moaned around the porch railings of a hunting shack that stood on the edge of the salt marsh. As the storm approached, the desolate little cabin seemed about to be swallowed by the swollen purple thunderclouds. They tumbled over themselves as though they were racing to block out the few early stars.

Suddenly, a different form appeared in the roiling sky. A spectator on shore might have mistaken it for a flock of gulls or a shred of mist driven by the approaching squall. A closer look would have revealed an airborne shape that was moving more slowly than the wind would have allowed. Then came the rain, pelting the waves and drumming on the roof of the shack.

The strange drifting form came, too. As it neared shore it began to solidify. By the time it reached the channel marker, it had formed into the shape of a ragged and battle-weary privateer. When it was about twenty-five yards from the marsh, the words HMS Pursuit formed distinctly across the stern. Silent, shrouded figures manned the rigging and the decks as they had done in life. Then, just as mysteriously as it had come, the Pursuit dissolved into a fog that hovered just above the waves.

The sound of men singing echoed distinctly in the air for a moment, before the wind mingled it with the other noises brought by the squall. The mournful clanging of the channel marker pierced the air as the spectral mist dissipated. Three human beings were left struggling in the waves where the ghost ship had lingered.

The first, a man with long black hair, was retching seawater and treading desperately to keep afloat. He pushed his strangling locks out of his eyes and mouth and grabbed at the teenaged boy floating beside him. The boy's pale blond head was silently slipping beneath the black water. The man fumbled at his sodden cloak and ripped it from his body. After freeing himself from the heavy fabric he was able to hold the boy's head above the waves more easily. The boy was naked from the waist up; he did not seem to be breathing.

A woman treaded water nearby. She, too, discarded her cloak, and began to swim slowly toward the shack. She was the first to reach the deserted place. Scrabbling up the muddy marsh bank, she grabbed hold of an old grey porch railing and hauled herself to safety. She sprawled exhausted and dripping on the rough boards and watched the man drag the pale boy toward her.

The waves grew more violent as the man struggled toward the safety of the little cabin. Swallowing water, he vomited and gasped for air. He dropped the boy, who disappeared beneath the surface. Choking out a curse, he dove and came up with the pale head next to his. He struggled desperately to keep afloat, but a large wave swamped them and they both went under.

The woman watched the swirling water from the safety of the porch. She was fair, with grey eyes and wavy blond hair. Her soaking clothes clung to a curvaceous figure, and in her hand she spasmodically clutched a blue, high-heeled shoe. When the man and boy vanished beneath the waves, the vague expression on her face did not change. When they reappeared a few yards away, the man clinging desperately to a broken lobster trap float with his free hand, she continued to stare at the spot where they had gone down.

The dark-haired man kicked hard, dragging the boy until he could grab hold of the edge of the porch. Grunting, he hauled the boy halfway up the bank before reaching the end of his strength. The boy coughed and gagged up great quantities of seawater, then lay still.

"Rosmerta," the man gasped to the woman on the porch. She looked at him and said nothing.

He rested for a few minutes, maintaining his hold on the boy's arm with one hand, grasping a hassock of sea grass with the other. The storm grew more violent, washing over the two stretched out in the mud. Shards of lightning leapt to the north and east, briefly illuminating the dark sky.

Inch by inch, the man began to pull himself the rest of the way up the bank. The porch railings were slippery with rain, and he found it necessary to let go of the boy in order to gain the relative safety of the shack. Leaning over the edge, he managed to take hold of one of the boy's arms and somehow lifted him up to the porch.

The nearness of the man and boy seemed to waken Rosmerta from her fit of disinterest; she recoiled from them both. Rising, she tried the door of the shack. It opened with little complaint, as though glad to admit human visitors once again. She moved inside and closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

The dark-haired man stumbled to his feet to follow her, but hesitated when the boy beside him emitted a sharp moan. He slowly sat up, rubbing his head and coughing.

"Draco," the man said, his voice still hoarse from the salt water. He knelt beside the boy.

"Professor Snape? Are we in Salem yet?"

"Hardly. The Pursuit could only take us to the spot where she went down, two hundred years ago."

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere off Cape Ann, or so the sailors told me. It was hard to make out what they were saying towards the end of the journey."

"I thought that was the end of everything," Draco whispered. Dark shadows encircled his eyes like bruises. His face looked nearly as ghostly as those of their spectral crew. Coughing, he spit a mouthful of fluid over the side of the porch. "Is Rosmerta here?"

"Yes. If you hadn't insisted on taking her with us, we could have Apparated."

"You should have tried Apparating anyway."

"A transatlantic Apparation with two Side-Alongs? The chances of failure were too high."

"For a great wizard like you? For the man who killed Albus Dumbledore?"

Severus Snape hunched his narrow shoulders beneath his dripping robes as he considered the boy before him. Fear colored Draco Malfoy's aristocratic features, matching the near-hysterical tone of his voice as he spoke Dumbledore's name. He was half-naked and shivering, and his white blond hair was plastered to his head. Draco's right hand self-consciously covered the black mark that Snape knew was etched on his left forearm.

Snape turned to the cabin door. "Remember who I killed him for," he spat.

Pulling a wand from inside his long black robe, he opened the door. The inside of the shack was littered with debris and odds and ends. Bird droppings covered the floor. Rosmerta crouched in the corner, her face partially obscured by her damp hair.

Snape leveled his wand at her. "Get up."

She didn't move.

"Madam Rosmerta, you will find this an infinitely more pleasant experience if you get on your feet now. If not, I will be forced to do something that I would rather not do." He tried to make his hoarse throat produce the threatening purr that had terrified his students for so many years, with some success. Rosmerta raised her head. Her face was expressionless.

"I killed Dumbledore."

"I think you'll find that I killed Dumbledore, actually. In spite of Malfoy's bungling around with Unspeakable curses."

"What did he make me do? What did I do?" Her face was growing wilder, and she broke into a wordless moan. It echoed eerily through the cabin, punctuated by the thud of rain on the shingled roof.

Snape strode forward and jerked her to her feet. The effort cost him, but he was relieved to hear the end of the moaning. "Enough. You were under the Imperious Curse, which I can only guess somehow ended when Malfoy nearly drowned. I brought you here to America at his insistence, but if you prove a nuisance you will be disposed of. Do you understand?"

She nodded, staring past him. Snape turned to see the gaunt figure of Draco Malfoy silhouetted in the doorway. The boy eyed Rosmerta carefully, as though weighing the chances of whether he could once again bend her to his will. He was caught off guard when she suddenly lunged toward him and flung her turquoise shoe at his face, catching him across the cheek.

"I've thrown you out of my pub before, Malfoy," she shouted, her face animated with rage. "You'll never utter an Unspeakable Curse again." Raising one hand, she revealed a dangerous looking shard of glass taken from the littered floor of the cabin.

"Expelliarmus," came a soft voice from behind them. The glass leapt from her hand and went clattering over the side of the porch beyond. Breathing heavily, Rosmerta backed away from Draco. Snape handed the young man a length of frayed rope that had been coiled in the corner. The other end of it was attached to a rusted, broken anchor that was lying on the floor.

"Tie her."

Rosmerta was still as Draco tied her hands firmly behind her back, but she was not silent. "So you chose exile instead of servitude, Draco? Haven't you pleased your master? Your father? Your mother?"

She flinched as Draco made to slap her across the face, but Snape prevented him.

"A Malfoy is always a gentleman, Draco—under most circumstances, at any rate. And remember, it was your choice to bring her."

Murmuring a spell, Snape dried their clothes before sitting in the doorway to watch the rain. Draco collapsed on the wooden floor beside his professor, his outburst of anger subdued. Rosmerta sat quietly, her face turned away from them.

Snape watched as a snowy egret launched itself gracefully from the edge of the marsh through the curtain of rain and mist. He had not chosen exile. He would return to finish what he had started at Hogwarts as soon as his final mission for Albus Dumbledore was complete.

It had been tempting to leave Draco Malfoy to his fate in Britain, either at the hands of the Order or at the feet of Voldemort himself. But Dumbledore's commands were not to be defied, even after his death. Snape felt a mingling of pity and disgust when he looked at the boy; a young fool who had tried the quickest path to glory. Draco did not understand that glory was usually hard-won, that it often took years of patience and a stroke of luck.

As if reading his mind, Rosmerta spoke in a gravelly voice from her corner. She sounded as though she had been crying. "Why did you do it, Severus? Albus trusted you."

He did not turn to look at her. At his side, Draco had fallen into a death-like slumber. Snape considered the boy's face before answering; Draco looked years younger when he was sleeping, but the still-fresh scar of the Dark Mark on his arm belied his innocence. He will never enjoy peaceful rest again, Snape thought darkly. As if on cue, Draco moaned and his mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.

"One more question, and I will throw that anchor into the water. Is that clear?" he asked, indicating the heavy, barnacle-encrusted object attached to her hands. "Let the boy rest."

"The 'boy' is an avowed Death Eater who cursed me!" she sputtered angrily. "And you—you are a Judas, worse than a blood traitor!"

A distant rumble of thunder announced the passing of the great storm. Outside the shack, it was difficult to distinguish the black water from the shadowy marsh, although overhead a few stars were struggling through the ragged wisps of cloud. The air had grown cool and damp. Snape could hear water swirling around the pilings supporting the shack as the tide rose. There was no moon.

Rising to his feet, he lifted Draco and carried the shivering boy back into the dark interior, laying him down on a stray lump of canvas with uncharacteristic gentleness. Draco murmured and rolled onto his side, but did not awaken. Turning, Snape approached Rosmerta.

"What are you doing?" she asked nervously.

Without speaking, he hauled her to her feet and began dragging her toward the door.

"What?" she began, but he wrapped a hand over her mouth. She kicked at him, finally realizing what he was about to do.

The splash was loud; Snape was glad to see that Draco remained asleep.

"Mmmph!" Rosmerta choked, inhaling a mouthful of water. The anchor was small, but it was heavy. By straining her neck backwards, she was just able to keep her nose out of the water, but the tide was rising fast. Desperate, she tried to slide the ropes from her wrists by rubbing them against the side of the stone piling. A small wave slapped her in the face, and she choked again.

"What did I say about being a nuisance?" Snape asked pleasantly.

"I won't—I'll stop," she gasped, wrenching her neck back and kicking hard against the bottom as another wave came. The wet rope cut into her wrists.

"I don't believe you."

"I prom—," she began, when another wave caught her across the mouth. She went under.

Swiftly, Snape lowered himself into the water. He caught Rosmerta by the arm, but she frantically grabbed him around the neck, pulling him under with her. Extricating himself, he cursed and moved behind her, lifting her chin above the waves as he pulled the rope from her hands.

She sat on the porch, drenched and shaking, as he carefully dried his own clothing with his wand.

"You see that I am serious about your behavior," he said calmly.

"Torturer," she spat, rubbing her wrists. They had turned an angry red.

He shrugged. "I have played the part. I was against you coming with us from the beginning. Draco wanted you, though—wanted to dispose of the 'evidence' against him. He could never kill you, of course, just as he couldn't kill Dumbledore when he had the chance. Draco may be a Death Eater now, but he's just as much a scared child who has gotten into matters that are too big for him."

"So you're going to kill me, then? Do you always do his killing for him when he loses his nerve? I thought the Death Eaters were tougher than that."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "I have no intention of killing you, Rosmerta. How many years have we known each other?"

She looked at him warily and drew a sopping sleeve across her cheek, which was streaked white with dried salt. "Many years."

Snape glided back to the door and watched as several new stars glimmered through the clouds. He focused on the dark water before him. The next question he asked surprised him, although he spoke it calmly, naturally. "Have you ever trusted me?"

"When I was young and foolish, yes. I listened to Dumbledore, and why shouldn't I? He was worth more than all of us put together. There was talk about you in the pub for many a year," she grumbled. "When I mentioned it to Dumbledore, he only smiled. He always had faith in you, and see where it got him."

"I'm not going to kill you," he repeated softly. She did not answer him.

Snape did not seem to notice. He stared across the water at a glimmer of yellow lantern light that was moving toward them. The night had become calm, and soon he could hear the squeak of oarlocks as the light drew closer. Lionel Skerritt, the valet of Charles Applethorn, had arranged to bring them safely to Salem—to Draco's refuge. The Applethorns were one of the oldest American wizarding families; their blood was as pure as it was blue. Snape hoped that their manservant would be discreet.

"Lumos," he whispered, and the glow from his wand illuminated a small grey dory that was approaching the shack. A hooded figure sat huddled at the oars.

"Skerritt?"

The figure nodded; tossing a rope to Snape, he pulled himself up on the porch. Lionel Skerritt was tall, with craggy features and a bristly mustache. Thick blond hair spilled from beneath the dark knit cap that was pulled tightly over his head. He nodded at Snape, who inclined his head stiffly in return.

"Who is that?" Skerritt gestured toward Rosmerta.

"A minor liability, which I have under control. Don't worry about her now. The boy is sleeping."

Skerritt nodded, and went on in his clipped voice. "I got your message: arriving on the Pursuit. How was the journey?"

Snape's thin lips twisted into a thin smile as Rosmerta pulled her still-soaking robes more tightly around her shivering body. "We survived."

Skerritt grunted and looked as though he was not terribly impressed with their survival. "Ghost ships aren't the best transports, but they're secret and safe, usually. You have to watch out for smugglers and other dangerous or crazy types on board." He gave Snape a sideward glance before carefully reciting his mission. "I'm here to take the boy to a place where he'll be sheltered, and no one will ask any questions."

He peered at Draco, who was lying with his face turned toward the wall. "I've heard he killed Albus Dumbledore. The word is beginning to spread through the city. A lot of folks don't like it."

"But no questions will be asked," Snape replied smoothly. His hand tightened around his wand.

If Skerritt noticed Snape's warning, he did not mark it. Striking a match against the side of the cabin, he cupped it close to his face and lit a pungent cigarette. "What about the woman?"

Rosmerta opened her mouth, but Snape closed a hand tightly around her wrist. "She'll stay with me." He gave her a look that made her close her mouth and stare at the floor, and then went to Draco's side. Kneeling, he gently touched the boy's shoulder.

Draco sat bolt upright and skidded backward across the floor. His pale chest rose and fell violently. "I saw him! I saw Voldemort!"

"No, Draco. You've been asleep. You haven't seen anyone."

Draco rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. "It can't be…I saw him. He was here, right in front of me. He…he was angry."

"You made your decision, Draco. He thinks you are dead; you are no longer in his mind."

Draco scrambled to his feet. "You promised me he would never know I was here. You said I'd be safe. You said he'd be satisfied with Dumbledore's death."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "The night you received the Mark on your arm you gave up safety. As one who has fled from the Dark Lord, you can no longer expect it, though you might search for it for the rest of your life. The protection you find here will last only until your cover is broken. The pain you will feel each time you refuse to answer his call will be excruciating."

Draco blanched. His hand spasmodically grasped at the raw scar on his left arm. The fear in his eyes turned to anger when he saw that Lionel Skerritt was looking at him rather disapprovingly. "What are you staring at? Do you know who I am? I'm a Malfoy. You are no better than one of my servants."

Skerritt grunted, but made no sign that Draco's words bothered him. "That's true, my boy; and I've been a servant of the Applethorn family for most of my years. They came over on the Mayflower, you know. But there ain't no Dark Lord searching for me. So you'd best quiet down and accept my master's offer of shelter for as long as it lasts. And remember he's risking his neck to protect you; you're the largest liability as far as I'm concerned." The last part of his speech was mumbled under his breath, with a sharp glance at Rosmerta.

As if aware that he had held forth for an uncharacteristically long time, Skerritt made a move toward the dory, unwrapping the rope from the railing and coiling it in one hand. Draco climbed rather unsteadily into the boat.

Rosmerta ignored Skerritt's outstretched hand and clambered down, trying to sit as far from Draco as she possibly could. Snape settled beside her, and she turned away shivering to stare into the dark, grassy expanse that stretched off into the distance. Without a sound, the small boat moved off, a phosphorescent sheen trailing in its wake.