Mist and Vapors

I met a man.

Hannah sat in the window seat of the small one-room flat that was her home for the summer. Her quill made smooth, precise strokes on the pages of her diary.

It seems strange, writing that. I noticed him walking around town this last week - it would have been hard not to notice; he sticks out like a crow among seagulls. Luckily, this town has enough of a magical population that they are used to the occasional odd bird. I figured he was wizarding kind even before he sat down next to me at the pub two nights ago.

He is tall and dark and not the slightest bit handsome. There is something about him, though - I can't put my finger on it. It's almost like looking through a dark, heavy drapery and just barely being able to make out the flickering of a fire on the other side. I am just writing inexcusably poetic bosh, I guess - but I decided I like him. He is interesting to talk to - well-read, intelligent, even if he does have a tendency to be a bit monosyllabic at times.

Yesterday, he showed up at that little beach I love. When I invited him for lunch, I don't know if it was he or I who was more surprised when he actually accepted. I asked him to come for a picnic again today. I don't know if he actually will. Just maybe, this summer could turn out nicer than I thought it would. We'll see.

His name is Severus.

Hannah put down her quill with a determined air and stretched. If she wanted to get a picnic ready, she better get her act together quickly. Time was running away.

Severus had spent half the morning wondering how wise it would be to actually go. And then spent a frustrating half an hour at the decidedly under-stocked village grocer's trying to find a bottle of wine that would be appropriate. He finally settled on a light Italian red - you couldn't really go too wrong with that, and since she had produced something similar yesterday, it should be acceptable to her tastes.

Walking down the narrow path along the shoreline, he made his way to the cove. It was a beautiful day. The sea shone like a thousand shards of silver, glittering in the noonday sun. Seabirds skimmed inches over the surface, their wings almost touching the water, flitting up just in time. On the shore, small waves slapped softly against the sand, a gentle, steady rhythm.

She was already there when he arrived, her nose in the ubiquitous book. As she heard his footsteps coming down the stairs, she looked up with a grin.

"Severus. I'm so glad you came. I would have had to make a pig out of myself otherwise." She gestured at the multitude of containers already set out on the blanket. It was clear that neither one of them would be in any danger of starvation that day.

He handed her the brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottle with a bit of awkwardness. The whole thing was still a bit awkward. Yet there was something surprisingly agreeable about having someone wait for him, want his presence, even if only as a lunch companion. Right now, he was inclined to consider the awkwardness a not too-high price to pay for that.

Taking the bottle from him, she said, "Perfect. Thank you."

By the time she handed him a small bowl of berries and cream at the end of the meal, he had relaxed some. If the old adage that the way to a man's heart lay through his stomach held true, she must be making a bit of an inroad, he thought with a smirk.

"That was excellent. Thank you," he said, somewhat formally.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." She was holding her glass of wine by the stem, twisting it, holding it up against the sunlight. "I like fixing up a meal for someone else. It's much more fun than just cooking for myself."

"Is that what you usually do?"

She looked away, and shrugged.

"So what do you do for a living? Is it related to food? Or books?" he asked.

The smile dropped off her face and she leaned forward, looking down at her bare feet, toes curling up in the sand. There was a closed look in her eyes now.

After a minute, she looked up at him cautiously. "Severus, in just a few weeks we will have to go back to our regular lives. I'll go back to mine, you'll go back to yours, and we will probably never see each other again." Her eyes wandered back to the ocean, got lost on the horizon. "I would really like to... forget about my regular life for a while. I know nothing about you, you know nothing about me. Would it bother you a whole lot to just keep it that way?" She turned towards him apologetically, questioningly. "I like spending time with you. I would like to keep spending time with you. If you want." She smiled a crooked little half-smile at him. "Take a break from reality. Just someone to do things with, talk to, right here. And when time's up, we go our separate ways. Would that be alright with you?"

A bit stunned, Severus realized that somehow, he had never even noticed how she had skillfully guided conversation so that the most basic of questions had never come up. "Where do you come from?" "What do you do?" Those questions, usually among the first asked when strangers meet, had never been answered. He still didn't even know her last name, or anything else that might be considered 'important'. And now here was this odd proposition...

Hannah looked at him sideways, her cheeks reddening. "I really didn't mean to offend you, I understand if..."

"No, it's fine," he interrupted her. "It sounds like a reasonable arrangement."

She let out a quick breath. "It does?" She sounded like she could not quite believe her ears.

"Yes. It does." His lips curled into a hint of a smile. No personal questions he would find awkward to answer. No expectations. It sounded fine. In fact, it almost sounded too good to be true.

-

A week later, the weather changed again. The rain was back with a vengeance.

Severus took one look out the window, and settled down for a long day in front of the fire. It was a nice change of pace. The sound of the rain against the window pane was relaxing, and the witches had Floo'ed out for the day, leaving the inn silent for once. The last few days had involved several meals and walks along the coast with Hannah, and though he thought her company quite tolerable most of the time, there was something to be said for a day of solitude with no one to disturb him.

It hadn't been quiet the evening before. He didn't even know how it had started. They had been drinking a cool glass of ale in the pub when somehow, an article on the back page of the Daily Prophet had led to a rather heated discussion on the Werewolf Acts, which were up for revision. Even though that woman clearly knew much less on the subject than he did, she was adamant in defending the position that the current law, which made it near impossible for a werewolf to find employment, was inhumane.

"They're being punished for something that isn't their fault. They cannot help what they are. They deserve compassion, not punishment. Not to mention that the condition is completely predictable and manageable." She had pressed her lips together obstinately.

"The condition is manageable if the werewolf is responsible. You cannot guarantee that even under the best conditions a werewolf will behave in a responsible manner," he had argued, his voice chilly. "The fact that new werewolves are created every year is clear proof that not all of them do, as should be readily apparent to anyone. Society has an obligation to protect itself from those who would harm it. If that places some measure of burden on those affected, so be it."

"There's no way to make sure that they act responsibly anyways. Unless the Ministry decides to dispatch personnel to every known werewolf once a month to pour Wolfsbane Potion down his throat," Hannah said sharply. "They simply cannot keep track of everyone, and it's the ones most likely to act irresponsibly that will simply keep moving without a forwarding address for as along as they can to avoid persecution. The ones willing to adhere to the law will be the ones punished. It simply isn't fair."

Severus' eyes narrowed. "You obviously do not understand what you are talking about. Yes, it may be unfortunate for the werewolf, but for the good of the majority, those living around or working with a werewolf need to be informed of the risk they could be exposed to. They can't protect themselves from a danger that they do not know exists."

"Well, you get ostracized for something that isn't your fault and you can't change no matter how much you want to. And tell me how you like it," she had said in a petulant voice.

He had not been able to convince her that there was no relevance whatsoever to that statement. She simply could not be persuaded that her point of view was flawed, and he had finally excused himself and had swept out of the pub in not the best of temper.

Somehow, he had rather expected her to come after him, but she hadn't. And all the next day he had heard nothing from her. Well, if she decided she had had enough, good riddance.

-

The next day, the witches were back, and he was contemplating another trip to Diagon Alley when there was an unexpected knock on the door. Opening it, he found the proprietor of the Inn, wringing his hands apologetically.

"I know you didn't want to be disturbed, but someone dropped off a note for you..."

Severus took it with a muttered thank you. With a long finger, he slit open the envelope.

Dear Severus,

Would you join me for dinner tonight? I miss your company (don't smirk).

Shall we say around six? If you don't show up, I will assume you had other plans.

Hannah

So she would just pretend nothing had happened. Offering an olive branch, hm? He smirked. Very well, then.

-

When he arrived at the small flat, Hannah met him at the door drying wet hands with a tea towel.

"Sorry, I am running behind. I lost track of time." She beckoned him in as he proffered a bottle of Merlot. "Oh, thank you, that looks wonderful. You didn't have to... Why don't you open it and pour yourself a glass while I finish dinner? "

She motioned towards the top drawer. "You'll find a corkscrew in there."

He did as he was told, and settled down on the couch. He looked around - the flat sported the mix of worn second hand furniture that could be expected in a cheap rental. There were a few touches that he was sure were hers. A quilt in muted shades of green and gold covered the back of the sofa. Round, fat candles squatted in the center of the low table in front of it. Next to them, a wand sat on top of a stack of books. Maple, 8 inches, he figured.

She was busy wielding a knife- the gently-curved blade rocked back and forth in an even rhythm, reducing mushrooms to cream-colored slices. The scent of baking bread wafted through the air.

Fifteen minutes later, the soup was almost finished. Hannah was bending over the oven door, ready to take out the bread. She pointed to the refrigerator. "Sev, would you mind getting the..."

The reaction was instantaneous. Two long steps across the room. A finger and thumb, vise-like, gripping her wrist, pulling her up, turning her to face him. A face, set in angry lines, inches from hers.

"Do not ever address me like that," he hissed, his eyes narrowed.

She closed her eyes for a moment

"Take your hand off me. Please." She pointedly looked at his fingers, still encircling her wrist.

He dropped it suddenly, took three steps away, turned his back. His breath was coming quickly, shallowly.

For a minute, no one moved. Then, "Severus, I'm sorry.That was incredibly thoughtless of me. It's a bad habit of mine. Please forgive me? It won't happen again," she said contritely.

When he did not respond, he heard her footsteps coming towards him.

First, there was the soft touch of a hand against his shoulder; then arms wrapped around his waist from behind. He could feel the gentle pressure of her head resting against his back. "This would be a perfect time to say 'I'm sorry I snapped at you'," she said quietly.

She gave him a light squeeze, and then let go and returned to her cooking.

He could hear her moving around in the room, the door of the refrigerator opening, plates clanking against each other. Part of him wanted to just leave. He didn't need this sort of... difficulty.

"Dinner is ready," she said, sitting down on one of the chairs around the tiny table.

He still stood, facing the door, not moving.

"I'm afraid dinner is nothing fancy - chicken-vegetable soup and some bread," she said apologetically.

"Did I hurt you?" The words came out gruffly.

"Not really. I'm fine."

"I didn't mean to..."

"You don't need to explain," she interrupted him.

He finally turned to face her. "Only one person calls me that," he continued bitterly, as if he had not even heard her. "Just to goad me, bait me. He knows I hate it." He turned back away with a bitter grimace. What in Merlin's name had prompted him to say that?

She got up and laid one hand on his arm. "Well, if it is confession time, I have one to make."

He turned and looked at her questioningly.

She returned the gaze, a twinkle in her eyes. "I really, really hate cold soup."

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. With a snort, he let her lead him over to the table. Time for dinner then.

-

Later that evening, Hannah bent over her diary.

What a strange thing this man is. He can be impossible, with a tongue sharp enough to flay the skin off a water buffalo from fifty feet away. And then strangely endearing, at the oddest moments.

In all fairness, I am sure I aggravate him as well. I sure put my foot in it tonight. Somehow, I touched a sore spot - there was this look in his eyes...

Yet the funny thing is, it is almost a relief that he gets mad now instead of being so distant and polite all the time. I find that I like him more, not less. Why is that?

Hannah put her quill down with a sigh. She was not going to find an answer to that puzzle tonight. Time to go to bed.

-

Since Bernie Bluett's Beard-B-Gone Potion had hit the market ten years ago, shaving in the Wizarding World had gone the way of the dodo bird. Yet the baby-blue bottle drew nothing but scorn from Severus. He much preferred the traditional way of doing this. The swish-swash of the razor against the strap, being sharpened; the rhythm of the brush in the jar, working up a lather; the coolness of the foam, the scraping of the blade against skin - he loved the precision and repetition of it. He couldn't imagine his morning routine without the ritual.

Drying his face, he looked over the meager content of the closet. Three more days, and selecting appropriate clothing would not be a problem any more. He was very much starting to look forward to his return to Hogwarts.

He contemplated what to wear. If he stuck around here, there would be no need for the odd attire that was a necessity when wandering around the Muggle part of town. Since he wasn't supposed to meet Hannah until dinner - something about fish-and-chips on the quay - he wouldn't need to worry about that for a while. He put on his customary black robe and walked down to the dining room for breakfast.

When he entered, he found that the witches had beaten him to it. Terrific. The arrival yesterday of two latecomers to the group had spurred them on to new heights of giddiness. As he made his way to a small table at the opposite end of the room, he could feel their eyes on him. They had suddenly stopped talking when he entered the room. After he ordered his meal, snatches of conversation drifted over to where he sat, as the witches resumed their talk in what he supposed they thought was a discrete whisper.

"...I told you it was 'im, Minnie..."

"He's so polite and quiet, though, keeps to himself..."

"...always say that about mass murderers..."

"I saw 'is picture in the paper, I'm sure it's 'im, Cerberus Snipe, or som'thin' like that. A Death Eater, is 'e..."

"I always did say you can't trust him, I did. Just look at him..."

"...said he even killed babies. Got off on a technicality."

"...scum like that, in such a respectable inn..."

"...should complain to the proprietor."

He ate his meal stony-faced. They didn't leave even after they had finished but kept watching him, with a sort of morbid fascination. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the looks on their faces as he left. Disgust, revulsion, scorn, contempt. Looks that had become all too familiar. Bile rose in his throat.

He went back up to his room, changed clothes and grabbed his coat. Aimlessly, he strode along the coast, over the lowlands, through town. He didn't even know he was looking for something until he found it.

She was sitting on a bluff, overlooking the ocean, knitting some sort of bright colored scarf, a magazine open in front of her. When she saw him, she rose and smiled at him.

"Severus, what a nice surprise. Do you want to sit down for a while?"

She motioned to a spot on the blanket beside her. "Did you bring a book?"

He pulled a book from his pocket, restored it with a flick of his wand to its regular size, and sat down beside her. As she returned to her knitting, he sat with the open book on his lap, looking over the ocean. After a few minutes, she placed her hand over his.

"Are you alright?"

"I am fine." His voice was rough.

He knew it was only illusion, only mist and vapors. All he would have to do was pull the shirt sleeve up over his left arm to see the hand get snatched away and the smile drop off her face.

The mark was still there, faded now, but still visible. It would always be there; proof that he deserved every look of contempt and disgust on the witches' faces. But she didn't know that, and her hand felt warm over his.

Mist and vapors, yes - but right now, it was enough.