Within the Wings of a Storm

I Have Always Been a Storm

rated MA.

Chapter title from "Storms" by Fleetwood Mac
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The door to the dungeons slammed with a massive bang, causing Rhiannon's Aguamenti spell to release water more like a spraying elephant rather than the controlled pour she had intended. The spray soaked the bouquet of narcissus she had transfigured in her earlier "boomerang to bouquet" lesson, leaving her lovely blooms in a wilted heap.

She looked up to see Severus fluttering in like an angry bat. He poured himself a glass of firewhisky and immediately plunked down with it by the fireplace, after hastily removing his teaching robe. Rhiannon glanced at the clock on the mantle.

"I suppose it's five o'clock somewhere?" she asked with an attempt at lightheartedness. Snape responded with a grunt.

Rhiannon closed her Charms text and stood, smoothing the thin, flowing white dress she had chosen to wear that day. It was her favorite, with large bell sleeves that fell to her elbow. She had placed one of the white narcissus blooms in her hair before they were destroyed. It was a look somewhat like a wood nymph — probably a bit silly— but she could imagine herself strolling to the Forbidden Forest and having a dance among the trees. Today was her birthday, and she wanted to at least feel beautiful and free, even if she wasn't.

"Are you all right, Severus?" she asked tentatively. It wasn't like him to come "home" during the middle of a school day. Most days she didn't even see him in the morning— usually only after dinner, and only for a bit before he had to make rounds and ensure the students minded their curfew. They usually worked late into the night, beginning with defensive spells, while at their sharpest, then either reading together by the fire or brewing a potion. Rhiannon found that she enjoyed either option; he would read to her, in that mesmerizing voice, if it was a text they were to discuss together. If not, they both would study their respective material, Rhiannon often finding herself looking up to watch the way the shadows danced on the harsh, concentrated countenance he wore; she could see the wheels turning in his mind as he absorbed and synthesized what he read.

Of course if he chose to work on Potions on any given night, a thrill would instantly shoot through her, and Rhiannon would try to control her eagerness as she sprang to the tiny brewing room. Never in a million years would she have imagined finding Potions exciting, but never would she have expected to complete a brew quite literally in the arms of a dark, brooding Potions Master, his voice vibrating in her ear as he directed and critiqued her work. His earthy scent filling her senses, the warmth radiating from his body— to a normal person it might be extremely distracting— but to her, it lulled her into a state of calm, focus, submission. Somehow he knew, almost from the beginning, how to reach her.

But it wasn't love. Attraction, infatuation, mystery — appreciation for him empowering her to be better. But not what she felt for Sirius Black. Sirius weighed on her heart in the background of her every thought. Wondering if he was ok, if he missed her, what it would be like to be with him again. Dreaming of seeing the world with him, holding his hand, hearing his laugh, watching his soft blue eyes sparkle. What she felt for the two wizards was so completely different that her mind almost felt justified in feeling both, although the she knew the end game would have to be one or the other. And it would be Sirius. It had to be. But that didn't erase the fact that every touch of Severus's hand, every low utterance of a word, every tingle he sent through her was like a drug she couldn't quit.

Rhiannon realized he'd never answered her, instead just staring into the flames. She walked over and laid her hands on his shoulders, massaging him gently. He promptly shrugged her off.

"Stop!"

"Severus Snape, let me take care of you. You're obviously under stress." Her hands returned and he shrugged her away again.