Rest with Your Dream in My Dream

Out of Bed

1 May 1998; 22:53

Snape stood impassive, as if waiting for her to say something more.

"Oh, but naturally," Minerva said. "You Death Eaters have your own private means of communication, I forgot."

He didn't react to her remark, but he inched closer to her, holding her in his gaze as if he were the Kneazle and she the Snidget.

"I did not know that it was your night to patrol the corridors, Minerva."

Her name on his lips was soft, almost a caress, and she supressed a shudder.

"You have some objection?" she asked.

He was close enough now for her to feel his breath on her cheeks. Closer than they'd been in ages. Close enough to touch, if she were so inclined.

"I wonder what could have brought you out of your bed at this late hour?" he asked.

She stepped back, away from him, searching his face for any sign that he was still in there somewhere, the man she'd come to know — or thought she had — over the years, but his eyes were the same dull and fathomless black they'd been since he'd first returned to Hogwarts after murdering Albus.

The Death Eater Triumphant.

30 July 1995; 19:22

"Severus?"

She waited, and when there was no answer, she pounded on his door with the heel of her hand.

"Severus, I know you're in there. Let me in, please."

No answer.

She pulled her wand and whispered the headmaster's universal password.

The door swung open, and she stepped into his sitting room.

It was dark, the only illumination coming from a lone black candle on the table. She used her wand to light the sconces that lined the walls.

The spartan spareness of the room didn't surprise her. That Severus Snape lived like a particularly bad-tempered monk was more or less what she would have imagined. The room contained only a scratched and stained oak table, a severe ladder-backed chair, and a more comfortable-looking but threadbare wingback and ottoman near the window looking out into the Black Lake. The chair had no antimacassar, and the dark patch at the top suggested Severus and his unwashed hair had spent a fair amount of time in it.

Several bookcases stood against one wall, and while there were fewer books than Minerva might have expected, a glance told her that they were well cared for, the leather spines oiled regularly and the dust that clung to the other surfaces removed.

Underneath the general smell of must and unwashed man that shrouded the room was a coppery odour that quickened her pulse.

"Severus?"

When she pushed open the door to what was likely his bedroom, a black robe discarded on the floor caught on it, sweeping a smear of blood across its path.

A few feet beyond, a skull-like mask lay face-up, its empty sockets taunting her, daring her to draw closer to the bed, which she now saw held a figure sprawled face-down atop the counterpane.

She approached, anxiety clutching at her chest.

"Severus?"

A muffled voice told her that he was at least conscious. 

"Go away."

"I'm here to help you. Turn over."

No answer.