Current mood:	and sinus-y
Entry tags:	my snarry

FIC: Severus and the Doomsday Affair
See, the thing is, while joanwilder was seekritly writing the glorious 'Second Best' for me, I was seekritly working on something for her. It's the reason I didn't sign up for snarry_swap this year (which began posting today, btw).

This was my humble offering to her.

Title: Severus and the Doomsday Affair
Author: jadzialove
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: inadvertent Voyeurism, spanking, rimming
Word Count: roughly 11,000

Summary: Severus sets out on the journey of a lifetime, determined to live before he dies.

Author's Notes: Thank you to my betas: blamebrampton and amand_r. Special thanks to the latter for inviting me to write this in the first place, to be included in a book for her mom for Christmas. If you ever need a Sooper Seekrit Keeper, Mandie's your girl, because she was in on both sides of my unexpected gift-fic exchange with joanwilder and never let on to either of us!

Unexpected as well, was the odd twist that had both joanwilder and me unwittingly writing seekrit fics for each other oddly based on Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movies. Yep, that's right. This fic was inspired by the movie 'Joe vs. the Volcano' and borrows a few choice lines.

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Severus and the Doomsday Affair


Severus Snape led a very gray life.

Each day, he rose before dawn. After cursory ablutions, tea (diluted, to stretch his supply), toast (dry), and watery porridge (lukewarm, for swift consumption), he made his way down the steep, narrow staircase to the shop below.

A shop that was not his own.

Severus brewed potions in a small, windowless room, ten to twelve hours a day for a pittance, then he made his way back up the narrow stair to his tiny, dingy flat, which served as the 'room' portion of his salary.

He rarely saw the light of day, never witnessed a sunrise or a sunset. The only color in his life was the occasional colorful potion, which was indeed a rare thing. Hylton Brothers Apothecary catered to a large, very unremarkable geriatric clientele, and Severus rarely brewed anything more colorful than dishwater.

Perhaps he should have felt gratitude: the Hylton brothers had taken him on six years ago, directly following his highly controversial acquittal, a time when others likely wouldn't have touched him with a ten-foot pole. But the work was mind-numbing and his life dreary, which was numbing in its own right, so Severus rarely thought in terms of gratitude. He kept his head down, not thinking at all when possible and not feeling, striving to become an automaton.

He came closer with each passing day to achieving it.

This day was no different than most of the others that preceded it. That was until the dull, persistent ache in his head (which was now so much a part of him that he nearly forgot at times that it was there) became rather more pronounced. The words on the potion order in front of him became impossible to read, and a wave of dizziness passed over him, forcing him to grab the edge of the workbench to steady himself.

As it was the fifth such episode in half as many months, Severus decided that it might be prudent to seek medical attention. St. Mungo's was out of the question; after being cast as a villain by the Prophet directly following his trial, Severus made it a point to avoid any large congregation of wizards.

His mother had taken him once to a Healer, he recalled. It had been when he was a child, after he first showed signs of having magic. The Healer's name was just out of immediate reach in his memory, but it came to him in the middle of the night. Severus threw off his thin blanket and got out of his narrow bed to fetch a quill and parchment in order to write it down, lest he should forget before he woke again for the day.

In the morning, before beginning his brewing, he used one of the delivery owls to send a message to Healer Washburn, requesting an appointment. By tea the next day, when Severus briefly left the confines of his workspace to take his meager afternoon meal, he found the owl waiting for him on the windowsill.

Severus took the missive from the owl's outstretched leg, read it, then shooed the bird away without a reward for its trouble. "Off with you. This does not require a response."

Maybe the Healer could cure what was ailing him and relieve the inconvenience it was creating in his workday. Ever the optimist, Severus reconsidered and thought, but likely not.


-:-:-:-:-


Waiting in the examination room, Severus wondered why on Earth they insisted on keeping it so frigid. And why, if he'd made an appointment and had arrived on time—early even—was he then shown to this cold room and left to wait for half an hour?

The brothers had not been pleased when Severus had informed them he needed the morning off; no doubt he would be brewing well into the night to make up for it.

That was where Severus's thoughts were firmly anchored when the Healer finally made his appearance, wearing the white robes of a private Healing practitioner and carrying the questionnaire that Severus had filled out upon arrival.

He'd expected the man to have aged, of course: it'd been thirty some-odd years since he'd been there last. But Healer Washburn was rather more ancient than Severus thought he would be. His thin, wispy white hair was fairly standing on end, he was stoop-shouldered, and the wrinkles on his face had wrinkles of their own.

"How are we today, Mr. Snape?" he asked.

"We are unwell, of course, or we wouldn't be here." Severus added curtly, "And now we are cold as well, sitting in this icebox for so long."

"It is cold isn't it?" the Healer agreed jovially, taking no offense at Severus's tone. "It keeps the brimblewangs and the do-wots at bay, you know. Now, let's see what we have here, shall we?"

The examination commenced, and though it seemed a bit unconventional to Severus, he sat quietly and cooperatively so that he might be done quickly and get back to work. He'd learned, while at St. Mungo's with a stubborn, gaping wound on his neck, that questioning Healing techniques tended to be counterproductive.

"Oh dear, dear, dear," Healer Washburn tsked.

He muttered that same phrase over and over, until Severus's already limited patience was at its end. "Well, what it is, then?"

The Healer looked at him sadly. "Mr. Snape, I'm afraid that you have... goodness, it's such a shame in one so young. You have something called... a brain cloud."

Having never heard of such a thing, Severus wasn't terribly affected by the news.

The Healer on the other hand, looked to be near tears.

Feeling suddenly anxious because of the man's odd demeanor, Severus asked, "What does that mean? How is it treated?"

"I'm sorry to say, it's quite untreatable. You have a handful of months, at most. I suggest you get your affairs in order."

Severus was dazed by the grim prognosis and didn't object when the Healer hugged him with a sniffle, before taking his leave.

He couldn't believe it.

Actually, upon reflection, he could. It was exactly how his life had gone: survive a war injury that might have seen him lauded a hero, or at least respected for his sacrifices if he were among the dead, to instead be tried and, though acquitted, found guilty in the eyes of the general population, only to meet an ignoble end by something as ridiculous-sounding as a brain cloud.

Severus walked dolefully from the Apparation point nearest the shop.

It was one thing to expect the worst. It was another thing altogether to be presented with it.

He'd sacrificed so much to the cause. He'd survived teaching ignorant brats for decades, he'd survived the Dark Lord while engaged in subterfuge for years, survived Nagini's normally fatal bite—he'd survived Margaret Thatcher, for pity's sake—it hardly seemed fair that he should be condemned to such an empty death now.

The bell over the shop door signaled his return, but the brothers were at the shop's counter, involved in their daily late-morning argument, and did not comment. Lost in his own thoughts, Severus paid them little attention.

"No no no, I didn't say that. I know he can get the job, but can he do the job? Entirely different," Fredric, the shorter but elder of the two aged brothers argued.

"It is not. It's the same thing," Heinrich, the taller of the two, objected.

"No, it isn't—I know he can get it, but can he do it?"

"Rubbish, why would they give it to him if he couldn't do it?"

"Exactly my point."

The idiotic debate finally broke through the fog of Severus's gloomy reverie, sparking something inside him, something he hadn't felt in years: irritation.

And with the irritation came clarity, causing him to see, for the first time, the decrepit shop for what it was. How he'd ever managed to effectively brew any potions in this dusty old shop, with its dusty old owners and its dusty old customers, he would never know.

Without a word, he walked past the brothers, past his inadequate brewing room, up the narrow staircase to his dingy flat.

Severus grabbed the bottle of Scotch he'd been rationing, allowing himself only an occasional dram when he'd had an especially trying day.

He filled his glass to the brim with a shaking hand and sat down at his small, rickety table.

Regret was a fire burning within him. He drained the glass, then refilled it. He'd never travelled, never learned the secrets of the world, had never seen any of the extraordinary, breathtaking, life-changing sights he'd dreamt of when he was young.

Propelled by his thoughts, Severus stood and began opening drawers, Shrinking everything he put his hands on and dumping it all into a valise he'd transfigured from a cushion.

Someday was a luxury he could no longer afford.

He had no idea where he would go, but away from this place was a step in the right direction.

Less than an hour later, he looked around the room, confirming that he had everything he wished to take with him, then hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and lifted the one thing he did not shrink: a tooled leather chest. It was rather bulky to carry, but not so large that it couldn't be done, and once it was secured in his arms, he headed down the narrow staircase for the last time.

As he made his way through the shop, Fredric called out, "Snape! Where do you think you're going?"

Severus turned, a hint of his old flair stealing into the action, and said, "Gentlemen. I quit."

And with a smile, he headed out the door, ignoring the indignant shouts that followed him.

"You'll never work again, Snape! Do you hear? Never!"

Fredric was probably right in that, Severus knew, but it made little difference to him.

Suddenly, he was free.

He took a deep breath and marveled at the sweetness of the fresh air. Time was wasting though, and he now had precious little of that to squander.

Spinner's End was his first destination. During his years as a spy, Severus had thought it wise to have funds readily available, and subsequently, he had both wizard and Muggle currency stashed away.

It was a tidy sum when combined with his unspent earnings, and would be more than enough for whatever Severus decided to do with his remaining time on this Earth or for a few months' of self-indulgence, in any case.

He walked away from his decaying childhood home, ready to face whatever came next.


-:-:-:-:-


Severus pushed the empty plate away from him, and reached for his glass, taking a swallow of Scotch to wash down the excellent shepherd's pie he'd just eaten.

Walking into the Leaky Cauldron had taken every bit of nerve that Severus possessed. He'd been amazed when nary a head turned in his direction; he hadn't been assaulted with outrage and threats, but was instead treated as any other patron going about his business, largely unnoticed.

His feeling of triumph had waned, however, when he'd reached the bar and discovered a former student manning it.

She'd smiled in welcome, and had greeted him pleasantly, if mildly surprised. "Professor Snape, hullo! What can I do for you today?"

"Miss Abbott." He'd nodded in greeting, slightly wrong-footed by her warm reception. "I have need of a room."

She'd shown him to a room personally, and then, after insisting that he looked a bit peaky, she'd sent up an excellent meal along with the bottle of Scotch he'd requested. Severus felt welcome and fussed over; the hospitable reception was completely unexpected, but very much appreciated. He decided that she'd clearly found her calling as a publican, and she'd blushed when he'd told her so.

He took another swallow of his drink and put the empty glass aside as well, in order to place the leather chest on the table in front of him.

He'd made a mental list of things he should like to do before he died. The items included the usual, he suspected, such as traveling to foreign climes. The lack of other items had surprised him, though upon further consideration, nearly everyone he'd ever held a grudge against was dead already, and so, for the moment, out of reach in that respect anyway.

Severus opened the lid of the chest and pulled out the largest item cradled inside.

Just as it had come to him two years ago, it was wrapped in a thick length of black velvet, and for only the second time, he uncovered the heavy object, setting it gently on the table.

A column of sea-green glass: two snakes entwined, stretching upward together. The glass was crafted so finely that the snakes seemed to be writhing against one another, an internal spark of life that made the sinuous design that much more fluid, sensuous... erotic. It was extraordinary.

Why the artist had chosen to send it to him was a mystery. One made even more baffling with the knowledge that said artist was none other than Harry Potter.

Severus reached into the chest and pulled out the rest of its contents: several little bundles tied with string. The boy (who was at present, by Severus's reckoning, twenty-five, and not a boy at all) had sent him letters and postcards quite regularly—still continued to do so, in fact—despite Severus's rare response in tersely worded notes.

The postcards were from all over the world, but the ones from the Mediterranean tempted him the most. If one had to die before his time, wouldn't it ease the passage somewhat if it were done in Greece, or Italy, with the breathtaking views he'd so longed to see?

And perhaps a reasonable person, one with no ties, no home to speak of, would do just that.

However, no matter how he shuffled the items on his To Do list, the same one sat consistently and firmly in the first spot: Harry Potter.

Potter's letters had begun somewhat confessional, each with a greeting of 'Dear Professor Snape', seeking as well as granting forgiveness. That early correspondence had led to Potter inviting Severus to stay at Grimmauld Place upon his release from St. Mungo's, where they had cohabitated with unexpected ease prior to and during Severus's trial. In fact, Potter had done everything in his power to secure Severus's acquittal, and it certainly wasn't for his lack of trying that they'd been unsuccessful in stopping the Prophet from running that series of damning post-trial articles about Severus.

The letters had become postcards several months after Severus had accepted the Hylton brothers' offer without hesitation. And the greeting had become 'Dear Severus' by then, as Severus, operating under the faulty notion that he'd never see or hear from Potter again, had relented and agreed that they could be less formal.

Because it wasn't only the backlash of that libelous rubbish that had driven Severus to accept the Hylton brothers' offer so readily.

No, he might've ridden out the maelstrom created by the Prophet's irresponsible practices and sensationalized drivel-spewing, if it hadn't been for Severus's alarming (and mortifyingly growing) attraction to Potter. The abrupt change of opinion about the boy, a person he had at one time genuinely disliked (if not hated), had been unthinkable, unacceptable, unreasonable, unconscionable, and most of all, unwelcome.

All of the missives had been signed the same way: 'Yours, Harry.'

He could mark Potter's journey from beginning to end with the postcards, along with the letters that had come during the time Potter had lived in Italy, filled with exuberance for the glasswork he'd discovered there.

Severus had speculated over the years as to why Potter was so persistent about sending them, and why he had sent the extraordinary glass. The answer he came back to time and again was preposterous, of course. Laughable even. No doubt, the true reason behind the communication was some sort of misguided sense of duty; it was no secret that Potter had appalling nobility issues. And the glass, well, the snakes could have simply reminded him of his old Slytherin professor, or might have been a comment on Severus's near-fatal encounter with a snake.

But what if it weren't?

It was the 'what if' that kept Severus from purchasing a one-way Portkey to some lovely Mediterranean spot.

What if the meaning behind Potter's persistent correspondence, as well as the gift of the glass, was exactly the seemingly absurd conclusion that Severus had drawn?

What if (oh Merlin, it'd been so long...), what if he had an opportunity to indulge in a spot of buggery with Harry Potter, and never took it?

What if he died, never knowing for certain?

That last question made up his mind for him. And if it turned out that the notion was preposterous after all, well, what was a little humiliation compared to death?

So, it seemed he was headed for Cornwall.


-:-:-:-:-


"The meter's just here, pop a quid in and you'll be good all day for hot water and heating, if you've a need."

Severus dropped his valise into one of the four chairs surrounding the dining table, and set the leather chest down on the tabletop. His landlady showed him around the stone cottage he had rented for two months, droning on about amenities and the local sights to see.

"...the beaches and the Lighthouse, of course. If you go up The Carn, take a coat—it's a raw wind that comes up that summit, even in the summertime. And there's Chûn Castle, on the gump..."

As stomping around moors was not on Severus's agenda, he listened to the matronly woman with only half an ear. He opened the chest and pulled out the glass, carefully unwrapping it, then set it in the center of the table.

"Oh! I see you've some of our Harry's glass. It's lovely, isn't it? His shop is an easy walk from here, if you fancy some more. It's a boon to our little village having him here—we've four new shops, a café, and a hairdresser's now. And tourists all year round. Never seen anything like it. Odd folk, some of 'em, but friendly, just the same." She smiled proudly, then added, "Usually we're booked for months in advance. Wasn't it a lucky thing you came along right after that nice couple from Tamworth suddenly decided they'd rather be at the Inn? Serendipity, it was."

"Quite. Thank you, Mrs. Trethewey," Severus responded, hoping to speed her departure. "Everything looks to be in order."

She took the hint, but smiled kindly. "I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?" In parting she added, "Welcome to Pendeen, Mr. Snape. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Once alone, Severus explored the cottage for himself. The living area was an open room that served as a dining room as well. There was a small fridge, a fireplace that had what appeared to be a coal burning stove in it, and there was even a TV, not that he'd make use of the thing. The tour concluded with two bedrooms of equal size and one full bathroom.

Severus stowed his bag in one of the bedrooms, then walked outside to find a garden sitting area with a small lawn, and a spectacular view overlooking the sea. He took his evening meal at that table, and then ended the day sitting in reverent silence, listening to the sounds of the sea and experiencing, for the first time in decades, a glorious, vibrantly colored sunset.

A good omen, Severus thought.


-:-:-:-:-


It took him a few days to actually go into Potter's shop, opting instead to sit in the café opposite, near the window. A little reconnaissance was in order before making his move, perhaps a hint of Potter's routine would help, some inkling of how Potter lived now.

Admittedly, his plan was not very well thought-out, considering it'd been largely hatched by his libido.

Like nearly all the structures in this place, Potter's shop was stone, with two large windows flanking the doorway. The sign above the door read: Enchanted Glass. The name was a bit cheeky in this thoroughly Muggle place, Severus thought.

As for the artist himself, Severus had spotted Potter a few times, only glimpses, but enough to confirm that he was indeed there, looking entirely edible, even at a distance.

By the end of the third day, Severus thought the barista might have been eyeing him for a stalker. At that point, he wasn't so certain he could disagree.

So, on the fourth day, Severus strode into Potter's shop.

Then stopped short, awed by the dazzling colors all around him. The art glass adorned every surface: incredible, remarkable, impossible pieces, everywhere he looked.

Nearest to him on a white pedestal was a blue sculpture that Severus was tempted to touch, just to be certain it was solid and not the flowing water it appeared to be. He was in possession of a fine example of Potter's work, but seeing it all now, in such quantity, displayed and lit to perfection, was nearly overwhelming.

"They're gorgeous, aren't they?"

Severus looked up to find it was a pretty, spritely blonde woman who'd spoken. She looked vaguely familiar to him, which was true of most witches and wizards younger than himself.

With good reason.

"Oh! Professor Snape!" she proclaimed with surprise when he'd turned toward her fully. "Fancy seeing you here." She smiled, seeming to know he was struggling to come up with a name. Putting a hand out, she provided it herself, "Priscilla Goodwell."

Severus reached out and accepted the firm handshake as the name finally connected in his memory. "Ah. Slytherin, late eighties, I believe."

"Yes! Exactly right." She smiled again, seemingly pleased he'd remembered. The Muggle dress she wore was a sunny yellowish-orange shade, and seemed to be a cut and color meant to soften her appearance, to put people at ease, belying the frenetic energy he sensed just below her polished surface. She fairly vibrated with it, and Severus wondered what this sort of alpha personality was doing working as a shopgirl; she seemed the sort that never relaxed, ready to launch into action at any given moment.

"I'm Harry's business agent—I'm just minding the shop while Melinda, the shopgirl, fetches us coffee," she answered his question before he could pose it. "Harry's just out back, in his workshop, if you'd like to pop in and say hello."

Severus didn't know what to make of the look in her eyes, but her smile was genuine.

"Perhaps I shall."

"Good. Harry'll be thrilled to see you, I think." She pointed to her right and said, "If you go back out the door, there's a gate in the alley to the left; follow the path and it'll take you straight back to the workshop."

Severus dared not consider her proclamation about Potter being 'thrilled' to see him as he pushed through the gate and walked the path to the workshop.

The structure had large, arched bay doors that met in the middle, closed at the moment, and a multi-paned window to the left of the doors.

He could hear a drone coming from within that Severus assumed was the furnace used in the making of glass. Uncertain how to gain entrance, and uncertain he'd be welcome if Potter were immersed in work (or at all, really), Severus approached the window, which was open, and the sight before him nearly brought him to his knees.

Potter was in there all right, but he wasn't working. He was leaning against a pole, his head thrown back, another young man kneeling before him, and Severus had a perfect side-view of the encounter.

Well, that was one hurdle cleared: Potter was clearly not averse to the attentions of men.

"Christ, Sam. This is absolutely not what I hired you for!" Potter laughed breathlessly, weaving his fingers into the chestnut hair of the young man on his knees, and after a few more moments of attention, he climaxed with a shout. Sagging against the pole, catching his breath, Potter sighed and asked wryly, "Is it still sexual harassment if the employee is the one molesting the employer?"

The man called Sam only smiled a dimple-ly, impish smile, while helpfully tucking Potter back into his trousers.

"Honestly, what would Michael say if he knew you'd done that, eh?"

"When I tell him later—and I will tell him—he'll say, 'Good on ya, mate!' then he'll beg me to ask you if he could have a go, too," Sam responded laughingly.

"Randy sods, the both of you," Potter accused with a laugh.

It was at this point that Severus caught his own reflection in the glass, in conjunction with the two lovely young men inside, and reconsidered his plan. The bedraggled old man (a flushed, aroused, Peeping Tom of an old man) looking back at him could not possibly hold any appeal for someone like Harry Potter.

What in the world had he been thinking?

He fled, as quickly and as quietly as he could, heading in the exact opposite direction he needed to go in order to avoid crossing in front of the store, disappointment hard on his heels.

As he hurried away, Severus realized he'd been mistaken about humiliation: it was infinitely more painful than death, he now recalled.

And he would know, he'd been dead once before.

He was just glad he'd averted disaster before it could happen.

Perhaps he'd go to Greece after all—there were beautiful young men there as well, and surely a fat purse would be blinding when it came to his less than ideal features. There was something to be said for anonymity.

"Oh! Oh no!" Severus heard, before feeling something wet plop onto his shoulder.

Paint, by the smell of it. Aubergine in color.

He looked up to find a woman on the ladder he'd just been about to step around.

Or more precisely, a woman falling from the ladder he'd just been about to step around.

Instinctively, he reached out, catching her before she hit the ground.

She hugged him around the neck, then squeezed. "Thank you! Oh thank you! Dunno what I'd've done if you hadn't been there."

Severus set her down on the ground, and she promptly tripped over the ladder behind her.

"Drat!" She stamped her foot in frustration, then kicked the ladder. "Clumsy idiot."

When she righted herself, Severus found that she, too, looked familiar. She, in fact, looked remarkably similar to Potter's agent, though, just as spritely, she was a brunette, rather than a blonde.

And despite the fact that Severus had no memory of having this young woman in his class, she recognized him.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Snape."

"Miss Goodwell?" Severus ventured.

She looked pleased, then said, "Yes it is. Angelica, actually. You wouldn't have had me in your class at Hogwarts though." She elaborated matter-of-factly, "I'm a Squib. But Harry and Cilla, my sister, talk of you. And your picture was in the paper, of course."

"Of course."

"Oh, look what a mess I've made of you! Of us both," she said, and Severus noticed that some of the aubergine paint had transferred from his shirt to hers. "Though, I was prepared for it." She smiled apologetically, indicating the already paint-stained over-shirt she wore. "Come inside, won't you? I'll fix you right up. I owe you my life, the least I can do is replace your shirt."

"It was less than a storey's fall, I hardly think you would have died."

"Oh, pish posh." She waved his logic away. "I'd've hurt myself for certain. Come in—I insist. I don't have any afternoon appointments. Thought I'd paint the window trim, and ended up painting you instead."

Severus followed without comment, simply because the paint had soaked through to his skin and was becoming uncomfortable; it seemed only fair to let her replace the shirt.

"This," she said with a flourish, "is Angelica's Beauty by Design."

It was a hairdresser's by the look of it—likely the very one about which Mrs. Trethewey had enthused—containing the requisite lift chairs and mirrors, but there was more to it than that.

"This side is the salon, and this side," she led him through a wide doorway, "is the shop. The clothes I sell are consignment and second-hand, but I know I have something here for you."

While she rummaged through the racks of clothing, Severus took a closer look at the shop. There were displays set up around the open space, appealingly arranged to show off bracelets and baubles, belts and bags, but the most interesting to Severus were the ones displaying pots and bottles and jars adorned with handcrafted labels.

"Here we are. This'll work, I think." She held up a shirt as she walked toward him. "Oh, those are my own concoctions. I make custom ones, too," Angelica said, in reference to the jar he held. She added somewhat wistfully, "I would've ruled at potions. Yours would've been my favorite class, I just know it."

Severus sighed and put down the jar, feeling his age for the second time that day. "That is highly doubtful—I was a very poor teacher. By and large, the one most detested by students."

"I don't know about that: Harry seems to like you just fine, and Cilla respects you quite a lot, too."

"Potter and I only made our peace after the war, and as for your sister, I was her Head of House, there is some loyalty to be had, even in Slytherin."

She looked skeptical, but didn't argue any further, leading him into the salon again—knocking into a cart containing various tools of her trade along the way, which set some of the items toppling over and had her swearing softly—then through another doorway at the back. "The bathroom is the second door there, if you'd like to wash up and change."

Using his wand, Severus cleaned up the paint, which was already stiffening. Despite his best efforts, some of the color held fast to his white cotton shirt, leaving a lavender stain. Ah, well, he'd purchased several of them in anticipation of spending time in a Muggle area.

The replacement shirt was the same long-sleeved Oxford style, but in pink instead, a color he would never have chosen on his own, but it would do in a pinch.

Once he'd put himself back together, Severus found Angelica in a kitchen area that appeared to have been converted for brewing. It was a tidy space and Severus looked around approvingly; it was open and sunny and was as unlike his former brewing room as was possible.

He had meant to thank her and take his leave, but he found himself strangely reluctant.

As if sensing this, Angelica said over her shoulder, "I've made tea, I hope you'll stay." She turned with a smile, carrying a tea tray, and set it carefully down on the table. "Oh, that looks lovely. You should always wear warm colors, they suit you."

Severus had no idea how to respond to such a statement, so he took a seat and the proffered teacup with a nod of thanks.

They sat in a surprisingly companionable silence, fixing then drinking their tea. Severus reached for one of the chocolate biscuits she'd set out, and found it to be delicious.

He looked up, but before he could comment, she said, "I bake, as well."

Severus swallowed his mouthful and said, "Ah. You are clearly a multi-talented young woman, Miss Goodwell."

She beamed, looking delighted by his assessment. "I get by, well enough. All my Gran's doing. She was a witch and Granddad was a Muggle. I take after him." She smiled wryly. "But Gran taught me all she knew about potions and brewing, and cooking too."

Sipping his tea, Severus noted that her demeanor changed slightly, as if she were carefully weighing her words, so he was somewhat prepared when she finally said, "I hope you don't mind me asking, Professor, but I slipped on the ladder because I recognized you and saw you marching away from Harry's at a fair clip: did something happen? I don't mean to pry, honestly, it's just that, Harry talks very highly of you—I can't understand why he'd do or say something that might chase you away like that."

Severus's first instinct was to tell her to mind her own business, but he was torn by a second, stronger impulse to share with her what had occurred. He didn't know what it was about her that made it easy for him to even consider such a thing, except that perhaps it was that she reminded him very strongly of two different women: Nymphadora Tonks, who'd shared Angelica's earnest good intentions (as well as her clumsiness), but with whom he'd never shared a friendship, and Lily Evans, with whom he had.

It'd been quite some time since he'd had a friend.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "What you saw was a man faced with his own shortcomings." When she seemed unenlightened by his answer, he cleared his throat and supplied with a significant look, "Potter was otherwise... occupied. I saw him, but never spoke to him." At her continued blank look, he elaborated, now bordering on impatience, "He was with a young man. They were not making glass."

She got the gist of it then; her eyes opened wide. "Oh!" She covered her mouth, giggling. Then she sighed and shook her head. "Oh dear..."

Thinking about the incident brought the disappointment back, and it landed in the pit of Severus's stomach with a dull thud. It must have shown on his face, because Angelica studied him for a moment, then reached behind her into a cupboard, stretching to retrieve a bottle.

"Perhaps this calls for something a bit stronger than tea." She held the bottle of whiskey aloft, then twisted off the cap, pouring a ration into her tea. "I've gin too, but you don't strike me as a gin man."

"You would be correct," Severus responded, taking the bottle she pushed toward him and doctoring his own tea. He left the bottle at hand, certain he wasn't finished with it yet.

She was too perceptive by far, and Severus knew he should tread cautiously, but the whiskey was already doing its job as he added just a wee bit more to his now entirely tealess cup, and he was feeling rather more... relaxed in her company.

"Will you go again?" she asked after few minutes of silent drinking had passed. "To see Harry, I mean. He'll be devastated if you were here and he didn't get to see you."

"I hardly think he'll be devastated without my company."

"Trust me, Professor, devastated might not even be strong enough."

He pursed his lips, considering what she'd said. Clearly, she was friendly with Potter, and her allusions seemed, at least to Severus, to indicate that his own thinking might not have been so outrageous after all.

Later, he might argue that it had been canny planning on his part, offering her insight of a personal nature strictly to prompt an exchange of information. In reality, it was rather more likely the combination of a sympathetic ear and a liberal application of good Irish whiskey had loosened his tongue.

"Be that as it may, he was clearly involved with this... Sam, and I am no competition for such an attractive young man. He is everything that I am not: young, good-looking, with everything ahead of him. They are much better suited for each other."

He swallowed the last of the whiskey in his cup, washing away the surprisingly bitter taste the words had left in his mouth.

"Sam? That randy git? He's been trying to get into Harry's pants since the day Harry hired him," she said dismissively. "Please, you mustn't give up on him. I'm absolutely certain it meant nothing to Harry. And I don't know why you seem to think you're so undesirable anyway. I think you're handsome."

The outrageous declaration caught Severus off-guard and he scoffed, "Perhaps you should have your eyes examined, then."

"My eyes are perfect, thank you very much." She stood suddenly and tugged his arm. "Come with me."

He followed, strictly out of curiosity, and she sat him in one of the lift chairs, then turned it to face the mirror.

"Look. Really look. It's true that you're not a classic beauty. But what you have is so much better. Uniquely handsome. Strong jaw and nose, distinguished looking features. That widow's peak is dramatic and coupled with your dark hair and dark eyes, you've a roguish, exotic look."

Try as he might, Severus only saw his own craggy features staring back at him, and his genuine doubt was as plain to see as the nose on his face.

"Oh, it's a bit rough, I'll grant you, but it's there." Severus looked past himself in the mirror to her reflection; she had a gleam in her eye that made him wary. "I have a proposition for you, Professor. I'll polish up your raw beauty, if you help me with my brewing. I know I don't have magic, so it won't be real potions, but I'd like to expand my line, and I'm at the end of my knowledge."

Severus considered her for a moment; here he'd been, thinking her entirely Hufflepuff, only to find her Slytherin at the core.

He might've been surprisingly out-manipulated, but he gave serious thought to her offer. He could hardly look worse for her efforts, and if she did somehow manage to make him look worse, he could easily undo the damage with magic.

And if she were successful...

Severus thought again of the clock ticking down the time he had remaining.

"You may call me Severus."

"It's a deal?" She asked, clapping her hands together. She reached out and they shook on it. "You should call me Angelica, then. Let's get started, shall we?" She grinned, clapping her hands together again. "Oh! I adore a make-over!"


Part Two