Unfurling of a Rose

What, after all, is a halo?

It's only one more thing to keep clean.

-Christopher Fry

Chapter 10

Hiding in a corner. Shuddering next to a suit of armor that turned down its helmet to look at her. She hit it on the leg, and with a rasp of metal on metal, the helmet creaked back to its original position.

Blood began trickling down her arms from beneath the makeshift bandages. From whom? What? She didn't know or care. Memories drifted through her mind like scarves in the wind, but now she just wanted to forget. Not exist. Nix. Nada. X.

She stared blankly at a patch of stones in the wall adjacent to her hiding place. There was a crack in the lower right corner, and a spider was navigating it, spinning a fine, thin, iridescent strand of web to the floor.

Sharp, sure footsteps echoed in the corridor, and she tilted her head. Black boots, slightly scuffed at the toes. Rich black material of robes billowing, baleful thunderclouds, marred only by a rough tear at the hem. The feet halted in the middle of the hall. She slid her head back, and rested her chin against her arms. She had tried to become as small as she could, but she could only hope the person in the hall was extremely blind or occupied and would pass her over.

No such chance.

Snape silently looked down at the curled-up figure of his pupil. Corielle's eyes were wide, red, and empty, and her face was blank. No. A single tear slid down the channels made by previous tears. Crying females. He never knew quite what to do with crying females. Nor with crying males for that matter, but...

He shook his head. There was no time for wondering what to do to comfort her. He could only give her what she needed.

Carefully, as though approaching a violent wounded beast, Snape came closer, then knelt on the hard stone floor.

"I'm sorry," Corielle whispered.

Snape's face twisted in confusion. "Sorry for what? What hideous sin have you committed lately?"

"I'm sorry I made you see. You were better off hating me."

Snape gave a mirthless laugh.

"Oh, rest assured, Miss Griffin, I still hate you. You needn't fear for our non-existent relationship."

"Pity. You may still hate me, but you will also pity me. Professor Lupin, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Jenkins, they'll all pity me, and treat me like a fragile vase. Despite what you think, Professor, for I may have given you a different impression, I despise being pitied. Everything seems very unreal when people look at you with their foreheads turned down and when they talk in harsh whispers behind their hands. I've seen it."

"Pity," Snape spat. "What a loathsome word. Really, Miss Griffin, if you haven't already noticed, I am as unaccustomed to offering pity as receiving it. Believe me, I will not pity you. If anything, I'll work you harder than I ever have before. It's rather cathartic, work. Besides, I've noticed you warm to it. You've never shirked from the assignments I or any other teacher has given you."

Corielle shifted her head again, looking again at the spider. It had reached the floor and connected the other part of its web. It was now crawling diligently back up the stone to start the process again.

"You haven't called me by the nickname you gave me," she said quietly. "That means you think this occasion is serious enough to use my surname in a formal manner. And you aren't treating me quite as horrible as you usually do."

Snape snorted. "You sound as though you want to me to spit at you, chain you to the ceiling by your thumbs and leave you there for the vultures."

"It would be more in character," Corielle replied sourly, holding a hand to her head. She was getting dizzy.

Snape, ever observant, noticed the gesture and reached out for her. "You have to go to the hospital wing. You sliced your wrists too deep." His hand closed around the wound. Corielle winced at the sting, and swayed where she sat.

"Leave me alone."

"No." Snape grabbed her other wrist, sinking his fingers into the flesh, causing the wound to bleed more, dripping into a small puddle of blood on the floor. Corielle cried out.

"If you die, you lose. Griffin wins. Do you want that?" He shook her. "Do you?"

"N-no, gods, no, let me go!" She shrank away from him. He abruptly released her wrists and instead grasped her face, forcing her to look at him.

His sallow skin, apathetic countenance, and flashing, black eyes made her freeze, staring straight at him.

"You will listen to me now," he said deliberately.

Corielle nodded, utterly mesmerized, mouth trembling prettily. The sight made Snape hesitate, glancing at her full lips. A quiver of something about which he preferred not to think shot through his stomach. He licked his own lips absentmindedly. Then he realized what he was doing, and he tore his gaze from her mouth in favor of her gray, oddly-shaped eyes.

"The things I saw, they are no less than things I have seen. The things Griffin did to you, they are no less than the things I have done." As Corielle's eyes widened, Snape explained further, feeling an absurd whim to clarify the obscure statements. "I have never taken a girl against her will. It's messy, petty, and it holds no interest to me. Yes, I was a Death Eater." Still holding her face, he let his left sleeve slide back, showing white puckered scar tissue in the shape of a snake issuing from a skull's grinning mouth. Corielle recoiled from the mark.

"But you have nothing to fear from me. My allegiance is no longer with Lord Voldemort. Hogwarts is my home. I protect as my home. Furthermore, I am Head of Slytherin. The Head of House is often described as a parent, and I protect the members of my House as a parent does. You are a Slytherin, whether either of us like it or not, and I will protect you. I don't care if we have to recruit a team of a dozen house-elves to guard your bed, I will protect you."

"I don't want your protection," Corielle whispered fiercely, writhing underneath his touch furiously, attempting to escape from his hold. "I want my parents back. I want my uncle killed and his head hung on my bedpost. And I want Voldemort cut into small pieces and fed to the darkest, wildest creature in the Forbidden Forest."

Snape held her all the more tightly to keep her from fleeing. "Good. We may make a Slytherin of you yet." Corielle stopped, looking again into his eyes. "You are a young woman of great power, Corielle Griffin. Have you noticed that you can do some of the spells most wizards find the hardest to accomplish as easily as the wave of a wand? Do you realize your true skill with a cauldron, even under the eye of one of the most skilful Potions Masters on this planet? Have you noticed how effortlessly you can find information, almost as though you have your own sort of sight? Have you not noticed the gazes of envy from other students as you master any charm, as you tumble any obstacle, as you face every difficulty as casually as a stroll in a park? Who else could have prevented Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard living, from using his vast power to get Lupin and me out of your mind, you memories? You have more control than you think."

Snape paused and noticed Corielle's blank expression.

"From your look of confusion, I discern you have not noticed this. Notice it, Miss Griffin."

"You're crazy," Corielle said waveringly.

"No. You've just beguiled yourself into the folly that you are weak because that is the illusion that Griffin would like you to believe. With his selfishness, he deprived you of your magic. You've remained in a position of submission for the last... five years, is it?"

"Six," she replied.

Snape nodded. "Six then. I don't know whether your power comes from being repressed for so long. Maybe it will take you six years to become a normal witch with normal capabilities. The odds are great in that possibility, but I don't believe it. From what I have observed, it is not the effect of a chained nature, it's the innate talent that appears in the most rare of witches and wizards. Your magic was thrown aside, and it returns now with a vengeance. It has to happen to someone, who better than you?"

"I don't believe you." But her voice betrayed her, and her eyes were almost glinting with bemusement.

"Your parents were good people. I remember them from my years at Hogwarts. Even though they were Gryffindors, even some of the Slytherins could find little to hate in them. They were fairly normal by successful standards. But you, Miss Griffin, your situation is anything but normal. You've lived a life of extremes: black and white, dark and light, night and day, good and evil, permitted and illicit, weak and strong, powerful and impotent. So you have to choose which you prefer, and it will be difficult for you to reconcile between the two extremes. Grays will be obstacles for you, so you need to start with black and white. Which would you prefer Miss Griffin?"

You have talent, power, a drive, and you are not going to squander away all your gifts because of one self-indulgent Black Dog."

"Death Eater."

"What?"

"He's a Death Eater now. The letter said he was promoted."

"That's trivia. Whatever he is, you are not going to kill yourself for Willem Griffin. That is the weak path. And you are my Slytherin. You will not be weak."

Corielle's now dry eyes gazed up into Snape's cold black stare, as intense as a tornado's eye. She lifted her own hands, red with her blood, and gently pulled Snape's grip from her face, staining his pale skin a deep crimson. Her pupils were unfocused, but Snape was still pleased enough to release her. She did not let go of his hands.

"Your Slytherin," she repeated. "I will not be weak."

And she smiled.

~888~

Gods, I need a drink , thought Snape, rubbing his forehead. He stared at the fire of his quarters, eyes hooded and cavernous.

He had led Corielle to the hospital wing and left her in the capable hands of Madam Pomfrey. Poppy had shaken her head with horror at the damage Corielle had done to herself, but one glare from Snape was enough to keep the nurse's mouth closed. He could feel the heat of Corielle's eyes burning into his back as he left.

The Mouse had responded to his lecture better than he had anticipated. A spark of something very Slytherin was kindled in her spirit now, and she had not been ashamed to admit her House sorting. One small step in the right direction.

Then why was he so... unfulfilled? Why was he still unsatisfied? He continued massaging his temples until he felt a sticky liquid congeal underneath his fingers. Blood. Corielle's blood. He still had not washed it from his hands.

He had almost forgotten the taste of blood. It had been a long time since his service with Voldemort, and even then his assignments to murder had been few. Snape was better suited to research, experimentation-- dustier work. Besides, he had never approved of such goings-on, though he had killed some for sport on an occasional bad day, and Voldemort had never seen fit to stretch Snape to something he did not care to do.

Snape brought his hands to his mouth, let his tongue creep out from between his lips, and gently licked the congealed liquid. Yes, it had been a long time. The metallic taste of Corielle's blood mingled with the distinct taste of his own skin tingled his spine, and he licked harder. If he concentrated enough, he could taste Corielle's skin, the skin cells she had shed when she had touched him, removed his hands from her face, the skin he had shed himself from her. He shivered deliciously, then stood, decisively striding to his wardrobe and snatching his cloak from behind his numerous, almost identical robes.

Not just any cloak, but the cloak he had worn as a Death Eater. He took the material in his hands, rubbed it against his fingers, feeling the subtle texture of the cloth. It was heavy, draping all the way to the ground, meant to hide the Death Eaters' feet when they walked, a mimicry of Dementors. On the hood, there was a thin gauze, almost opaque from outside observation, to hide from prying eyes the face of the Death Eater so they could roam at will and never be seen. He would not wear the hood tonight. There was no need.

~888~

The night was a clear one; no clouds obstructed the view of the stars, and the streets of Hogsmeade were crowded with magical folk who wanted to cram in their Christmas shopping while the weather was still kind and cool, free of sleet or snow. Snape trod through the village practically unnoticed. His hood was draped over his face, the mask tucked against the back of his head. Anyone looking would have only seen an inexpressive mouth and a determined jaw, a startlingly formidable physiognomy; the upper part of his face submersed in shadow, his eyes glittering ever so slightly in the light of the lanterns flanking the streets.

It was good to be ignored, to not have to sneer at any Gryffindor crossing his path, to not have to skirt unwelcome glances or engage in forced cheerful conversation. Not that he ever sounded cheerful in any conversation except where Potter's detentions had been the subject...

On a whim, Snape slipped into the Three Broomsticks, wincing a little at the sudden acquaintance with light.

"Good evening," said Madam Rosmerta, approaching Snape while holding a tray of drinks. "What can I do for you, sweet'eart?"

He paused, wondering when the last time someone had called him 'sweetheart' was, then deciding it was too far back for him to remember, if it had ever happened at all.

"Excuse me, sweet'eart," said Rosmerta again, "I'll be right at your table, but the vampires over there are getting thirsty. Find a seat, and I'll Locate you when I'm finished. What's your name, sweet'eart?"

"Stefan," Snape replied smoothly. "Judas Stefan."

"Well, Judas, I'll be right with you." She walked away, hips swaying seductively. Oddly enough, Snape only eyed the curvy lady with detached curiosity, nothing more.

He really had never been too distracted by the ladies of the wizarding world. When he needed sexual satisfaction, he'd go to the whorehouses, but he never cared which girl he had. Except one, and that had been when he was very, very young; seventeen, just out of Hogwarts. A cocky young boy, a Master at Potions at such a young age, arrogant and swaggering, ready to conquer the world-- much like every other shallow youth out of school. Of course, he had already been a Death Eater at that stage, but ripe for the youthful obsession nonetheless.

The woman in question had been an enchantress, and, as far as Snape knew, ageless. At times she would look twelve, and at other times, a very smooth-skinned eighty. She was his first lover, and when she was through with him (and all enchantresses grow tired of the lovers they chose), she had thrown him from the company of her cave and beautiful golden skin into the wilderness, naked and possessionless.

He had stumbled upon a shack in the woods and had collected his bearings there until he was summoned again by Voldemort and was saved the trouble of gathering enough strength to Apparate on his own. He had been spat on and ridiculed by Voldemort's other Death Eaters and because Voldemort had been looking on with cruel amusement, Snape had had to suffer the humiliation without a sound, cry, or plea. The next day, he had privately renounced his loyalty to Voldemort, and joined Dumbledore, who would never let him be humiliated in such a way.

Well, not purposefully. He had been humiliated by Mouse, but that was different. That had been his choice. Which made it worse. He had requested that Challenge, and Dumbledore had warned him he could lose in front of the whole school, but Snape had been arrogant again, and had lost. It never ceased to amaze him how much one man could hurt himself without others' help.

The sound of a woman's voice asking some kind of question brought Snape out of his reverie and back to the warm present of the Three Broomsticks.

"Well, sweet'eart, what will it be?" Madam Rosmerta repeated patiently, taking out a quill and bit of parchment.

"Anything strong."

Rosmerta looked at him from under her brows. "Are you sure, sweet'eart? We have some very strong concoctions in the back, but you look as though they might..."

"I said," Snape enunciated with an edge to his voice, "anything strong. I didn't want an editorial about my drinking habits."

"Okay," said Rosmerta, shaking her head, "will do." She gave him one last disappointed pout, then turned on a heel to place his order at the bar.

Rosmerta was quick, and returned in seconds to hand him a flagon of something Snape did not even want to know the color of. He took a sip, then looked away from Rosmerta, signalling to her he was finished with her presence. Rosmerta flounced away, slighted.

While drinking what tasted like fire made liquid, Snape let his eyes drift across the pub. There were a few people he knew present.

Charlie Caiman was chattering enthusiastically to a rather beautiful young witch with a neckline so low it was almost nonexistent. Caiman's eyes were definitely not on the young witch's face, and the witch knew it.

Beyond that table, Snape saw with surprise that Hermione Granger was discussing something very serious with a wizard almost twice her age who looked like he was in intellectual heaven.

Snape shook his head with a slight smile before he noticed Hermione was not wearing much herself. He shook his head again to clear it, and finally realized he liked Hermione better when she was a prudish, outspoken nerd, much less distraction indeed, easier to ignore. Better to think her a student, and not a person, and the same could be said for any of his students. He usually tried to shy away from their personal lives.

Though it was true that sometimes their personal lives became his, although he usually knew how to discourage them. It might be surprising to some of his fellow professors if they heard some students of his had had a crush on him. To be accurate, five Ravenclaws, one Gryffindor, and three Slytherin girls to date. His sense of smell was keen enough to sense the hormonal changes in the girls who had fooled themselves into thinking he had a martyr complex and thus was worthy of their misguided affections. The best way to let their teenage ardor die out was not to yell and antagonize them, but to simply pretend they weren't there. That convinced them they were not important enough to merit his attention, and they lost interest.

Hermione Granger was the only Gryffindor who had ever been attracted to him. It never ceased to amaze him, but in her sixth year, he had sensed her sexuality open when he looked at her though he thought it had been so slight, she had not even been completely aware of her own reactions. But he had weathered that storm. Thank Chrestomanci.

He dragged his mind away from reminiscences again-- how morbidly nostalgic he was being this evening!-- and continued to survey the room.

Mundungus Fletcher was conversing with two of his colleagues, elaborating with grand gestures. Snape could see at a glance that the wizards who were listening were extremely bored. Fletcher always did have the same talent to put people to sleep as his great-great-great-grandfather had, the previous History of Magic teacher of Hogwarts.

And Snape continued to drink.

When he finished that single flagon, he took out a Galleon from the pocket of his robes and set it on the table, then left, as inconspicuous as a ghost. The crowds were beginning to give him a headache, so he slid into a rather deserted alley. He stood in the moonlight. A rat crashed into some broken glass and a trash can fell over as it scurried away from the presence of the dark man.

"Who's there?" someone called, a female voice, tremulous with fear.

What idiotic girl would be skulking in a deserted alley at this time of night? Snape asked himself, reaching behind his head and pulling the mask over his face. How foolish.

Grinning a shark's smile, he followed the frightened sound of her breathing, feet moving as quietly as if he were floating. He saw a white-robed arm quivering from behind one particular trash can, and a single eye gazed at him like a petrified rabbit.

"Hello, little girl," Snape murmured.

"Oh, gods," she gasped. She jumped up, causing the trash can to roll into the middle of the alley, and began running. Snape followed, relishing the smell of her fear, intoxicating as the liquor he had just consumed.

She was small, and she could not run very quickly. He caught up to her within minutes. She began sobbing, great big wracking sobs that caught in her nose and throat. He held her arms and shook her.

"Help," the girl tried to cry out, but the cry was smothered by her own tears. "A Death Eater!"

"I'm no Death Eater," Snape said, his silky voice cutting through her sobs like a warm knife through butter.

"Then-" she choked, "why-?"

Snape sneered from behind his mask, and growled, "I was trying to bring you into the streets. The alley isn't safe for such as you. Don't you know Death Eaters escaped Azkaban? Has lunacy invaded your brain as it has to every other damn fool in this world? I would have thought someone as innocent as you would have some sense." Every word sounded like something he would say to one of his students, and Snape was aware of this. He grimaced in disgust. He had been a professor for too long.

"I'm s-sorry," the girl tried to say.

"Don't be sorry," Snape snapped. "Don't do it again and waste my time. Now go!" He threw her to the side. He heard her stumble, then she scurried away as though hellhounds were at her heels.

Snape sighed.

"I'm getting soft," he whispered to the moon. "Where did Severus go? I remember when I would not have even let her speak. I would have wrapped my hands around her pure little neck and strangled her, nice and slowly, so I could see every contortion of her pretty, young face. Damn! I've never seen a world so festering with damnation!" His voice echoed against the stone walls, but he did not care. "Has Voldemort really returned? Have people really died with the Dark Mark hovering over their roofs as my own Mark lingers on my polluted skin? Why should I care? I never would have before. Why is it real to me?"

He struck a wall. "Damn!"

Then he fell to his knees and whispered, "Who am I now? Who have I become?"

~888~

Draco spared a glance for Corielle as she began slicing Mandrake roots. Her hair was pulled back today, plaited into one long tail that fell down her back. She had a faint smile on her face, a surreptitious smile he had never seen before nor ever expected to see.

It was a smile of confidence, of secret knowledge.

It was the Slytherin.

Though she was two years younger, she had intrigued him since her first appearance in the Great Hall when he had inquired about the head scarf. He had not really minded the assignment Professor Snape had given him, to watch her and tell him everything Draco knew. His natural curiosity would have led him down that path anyway. And he never regretted his friendship with her. Or what passed as a friendship in Slytherin.

Neither did Corielle, it seemed. She went on working with him in their classes, and she spoke with him when he spoke to her, and sometimes she even voluntarily sat with him. Draco wasn't sure whether she liked him or whether she just felt comfortable with his presence.

Either way, Draco was content with the girl Corielle was becoming. And furthermore, he thought Snape was as well.

Draco sometimes saw Snape curve his lips in what appeared to be a smile when Corielle answered a question correctly in his class, or when she brewed a potion to perfection. Corielle was no Hermione Granger; she did not strut her intelligence and abilities, and Draco knew Hermione's general hands-up antics were what made her so despicable to Snape in the first place. Still, not much led to a smile with Snape, and Draco sometimes wondered exactly what made the Potions Master so pleased when he walked into class with Corielle behind him after a morning of advanced private classes.

Little did Draco know that Snape wondered the same thing. He, too, had noticed Corielle's almost immediate change. She had not transformed from her previous personality. She still fed bits of her food to the mice that had nested under her bed, the ones that she had ordered the house-elves not to disturb, and the one mouse which she had fed in the Great Hall. Lupin still commented on Corielle's kindness and sensitivity, his eyes sad as he thought of all Corielle had been through; Corielle had been right about how her other teachers would treat her, but she managed to survive despite the pity she so hated. How odd that he and Corielle would share such a characteristic.

No, Corielle was becoming Slytherin, of that Snape was sure.

He bent down to make a red mark on one of the second-year Hufflepuff's essays when the classroom door burst open, and a large personage entered the room.

"Severus Snape!" it bellowed. "What is the meaning of this?!"