The Space Between Failing and Falling • Snarry •

Chapter 4: Restlessness Before Reprieve

Potter's breathing levels out.

"Of course, you would know all this, had you paid attention in class."

His breathing does not change.

Asleep at last.

He approaches the youth who is inexplicably in his private quarters. He hasn't had any teacher training on what to do in this situation.

"Had you not persisted in being so infernally annoying," he murmurs, stroking the very tips of Potter's hair. "Captain's log: day two hundred and twenty-nine, twelve-thirty hours...and the boy still visits."

He really shouldn't touch the boy.

"Wingardium Leviosa." He lowers a blanket over Potter's shoulders and feeds the fire with a wave of his wand before retiring to bed.

He has a sleepless night.

In the morning, Potter is gone.

****

The NEWTs are over and there is now no excuse for Potter to visit.

"I've decided what to do with my life, sir!" He throws his bag on the floor and huffs a laugh. "Well, the next part of my life. I've been accepted onto a Defence Mastery at the Wizarding University of London!"

"London." London is far away. "I see."

"Thanks to you! They said you wrote me a great reference. Term starts on the fourth of October. I've got a flat just off Diagon Alley—"

"Naturally, they would accept you into any course you apply for. But I can see that further studies in Defence shall suit you well."

The boy grins and grows several inches. It was scarcely even a compliment, for Merlin's sake.

"It will be hard work," Severus warns. "A mastery is not a life of parties and merriment." Harry's smile is undimmed. "And of course, you must wield your magic with the utmost of discretion. Who is your supervisor?"

"Professor Coppens. Do you know him?"

"We met."

"Apparently he won the Provost Education Award! Can I—that is—would it be all right if I wrote to you sometimes, for advice on things? About Defence. Seeing as you're my Defence master."

"Possibly. About Defence. If time permits."

The nib of his quill snaps. Damn it. Damn it all.

"I would like that."

****

The following day, once Granger and Draco finish the graduation address at the Leaving Feast, the Prefects, the seventh-year Head Boy and Girl, and the teachers file down to the lake.

It is a curious mix of emotions seeing this group of students graduate, three to a boat. Not one to break tradition, Potter has violated the rules laid down for his own safety. He is crammed in with Granger, Boy Weasley, Girl Weasley and a hideous cat.

He has had a lot of strain with this year group, what with Longbottom's uprising, nearly dying for Potter, and the annual life-threatening antics the Golden Trio got up to. He has lost one of his own—Crabbe—and regained the respect of his pupils and the friendship of his colleagues.

It is highly unlikely he will see these young adults again.

After he has packed for Cokeworth, he sits with his grandmother by the fire. The classical music hour has come to an end on the Wizarding Wireless Network, and someone is now wailing about love. He switches it off and ambles over to his gramophone. Music can transport him away from his cauldron of swirling thoughts of unease.

"Be a dear and put on one of my old records," his grandmother requests.

"They're packed."

"Summon them, then."

"Only if you'll shut up."

When she recognises the opening bars of Loch Lomond, she says, "Well this is cheerful. He's not dead, you know."

"I thought you said you'd shut up."

"I said no such thing." She sniffs.

"'Twas then that we parted in yon shady glen.

On the steep, steep side of Ben Lomon'.

Where in purple hue, the Highland hills we view,

An' the moon risin' high in the gloamin'.

Ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,

And I'll be in Scotland before ye.

For me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomon'."

When it comes to an end, she says, "Put on something nice. Try Rachmaninoff."

He huffs over to his trunk to find something suitable.

"So, I've been sorting out your life," she says, pulling Tarot cards from her sleeve.

"What?"

"Listen. The Hanged Man, Reversed." She slaps the card on the arm of her chair. "You've been an idiot. The time has come to move on from your backward way of thinking."

She pulls out another. "The Hierophant. You're conforming. A committed teacher. Very commendable." It joins the first card.

Severus raises his eyebrows.

"Finally, Temperance." She gives him a triumphant look. "Somehow if you continue on your path, and you are balanced and stabilised, harmony is in your future."

Severus is speechless.

"You ought not listen to a word Sybil says. She thinks you're going to kill yourself and return as a majestic-looking ghost."

"It is tempting, I'll admit. If nothing more than to shut you up."

She adjusts her ear trumpet. "Speak up, m'lad."

"I said, 'goodnight'."

Now that there's peace at long last, he drags his armchair over to his floor-to-ceiling windows, kicks off his dragonhide boots and tugs open the curtain.

When it's a clear night, he can see the moonlight shimmering on the lake out the back of the castle. When there's mist, it's almost as if he is looking at a perfectly brewed Draught of Peace. Puffing on his wizarding cigarette, he sighs around the purple smoke.

Tonight, he can only see raindrops hammering on the dark glass.

****

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