What Connected Us All

How Else Could We Have Begun?

"Remind me never to drink Firewhiskey ever again," Celia groans with hands clasped over her head.

Farren wants to agree, and opens her mouth to do so, but all that comes out is a sort of incoherent mumble. She tries again. "It would be lovely, if this insufferable headache didn't follow."

"Mum said it was God's punishment for sinners who drank their rum too generously," Grace says matter-of-factly.

Farren shoots her a piercing glare. "Thank you, Sister Grace, for that illuminating information. But do try and keep those fun facts in that hungry brain of yours."

"You don't have to be so nasty, Ren," Grace huffs.

But Farren is in a foul mood. She can tell Grace had undoubtedly faked how much she'd had to drink last night. She doesn't appear to be in nearly as much pain as the rest of them. This makes Farren angrier, however irrational that reaction may be.

"Ren," Celia says questioningly with a glance at the grandfather clock near the fire. "Weren't you supposed to meet Snape today?"

Her eyes widen cartoonishly. "Bugger," she mutters and springs into action, running out of the portrait hole.

People try to catch her attention as she dashes by them. There are shouts of "Hey Ren!" and "What's the rush?" and a few catcalls from boys (the buffoons). She pays them no mind and makes a bee-line for the classroom room she'd previously had no intention of revisiting.

Farren feels a wave of relief as the door looms into view and speeds up.

What time is it? Has Snape already condemned her as a forgetful twit, if he hadn't already before? Farren is always quick to defend on that matter due to presumptions people often made of the very blonde hair on her head.

The door is feet away when she suddenly collides with a very solid object.

"Who the - Ren?" It is James with Remus beside him.

"Oh," she sounds flustered and forces calm. "Sorry about that. I'm in a bit of a rush."

"No problem." Farren attempts to walk away but he calls her back. "While I have you here though, I was wondering whether I could get a word later."

"Fine," she says, impatient. "I'll see you in the Great Hall during dinner."

James responds but she's already gone through the door and cannot hear.

"You are late," is Snape's humble greeting.

Abruptly Farren realizes how silly she'd been for worrying about this grease ball of a kid, with his big nose and twitchy manner. Winning him over is in none of her interest. Who cares if he thinks her a forgetful twit?

Well, Farren does, but only a little.

"Sorry, I forgot."

"I have been waiting for more than an hour. Do not presume that if you show up late I'll do the work for you."

"I said I was sorry," Farren hisses through gritted teeth. "I have a very bad headache and our... meeting--" the word is said in slight disgust "--slipped my mind."

Farren expects the scrutinizing gaze Snape gives her to have no effect. She expects to have a moment of small victory for being unfazed by his intense eyes. But all of a sudden she feels a very quick, involuntary fidget.

Snape's eyes flood with pleasure. He has won this time. "I started the essay during class."

"What's it on again?"

"We have to describe the several ways in which one can kill with potions, as well as determine their remedies." He might as well have said, "You're an incompetent fool and I think you beneath me." It is already there in the undertone of his actual words.

"Alright then," Farren says in a falsely chipper voice, moving to sit beside him.

Snape speaks in a voice that is smooth yet prickly. Like the sweater that appears as though it would be comfortable, but turns out to be itchy. He looks up often from the paper to watch her stonily.

Farren cannot determine the color of his eyes because she is not close enough. Upon first glance they appear black, but she knows that can't be right. The thought begins to obsess her slightly, and Farren deviates manners in which to find out. It seems suddenly vital. Perhaps leaning in as though interested in the textbook? She is about to put an elbow on the desk when she realizes it's the very desk Sirius had placed her upon the previous night.

Farren had long-since come to the conclusion that she'd never truly liked a boy, but rather the attention the boy gave her. But Sirius, it would seem, is different. She revels in how surprisingly good their kiss had been. It's not as though she were swooning (God help the day Farren Graham swoons) but there is definite potential. Maybe she could learn to fancy him, despite the subtlety factor or lack there of. He might even turn out to be a genuinely good person. Though she wouldn't hold him accountable for too many expectations.

"Are you even listening?" Snape snarls.

"Yes," says Farren automatically.

"No you are not. I've repeated a question three times, and you failed to answer once."

A sharp throb in her head makes Farren feel overwhelmed for a moment, with Snape's shouting and the pounding of her brain beating against her skull. She attempts one of those charming smiles. "I am sorry I'm being so difficult -"

"Stop apologizing when you are so obviously indifferent!" He bangs his hand on the table and Farren jolts in surprise. "Stop being sorry and work! God, remind me to thank Professor Slughorn for placing me with an idiot like you."

SMACK. The slap is immensely audible, along with the clatter of the chair Farren has shot up from. "Don't you ever call me an idiot again," she says in a low and dangerous voice. "Do you understand me?"

His reaction time is impeccable. "Prove me wrong, then."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Farren says, placing short pauses between each word to give emphasis. Then she grabs her things jerkily and leaves the room and Snape.

"So here's the thing," James says as he slips in beside her at the Gryffindor table, slinging an arm around her shoulder in a chummy manner. "This pretty good mate of mine is kind of falling for you."

"Oh really?" she says, playing along. "And who is this friend of yours? Is he good-looking?"

"I can't tell you that. You'll have to guess."

"Oh I couldn't possibly guess who this mysterious man is."

"Humor me."

She taps a finger to her chin as if pondering the challenge. "Does his last name happen to be a color, and the first an adjective?"

James makes an accusatory gesture. "Bloody hell, who've you been talking to?"

Farren grins, making the resemblance to a child even more pronounced than usual. "You're friend's tongue."

They laugh for a moment, then James says seriously, "But really, Ren. I just wanted to..." he hesitates, searching for the right words. "--caution you to play nice with our dear Sirius. He's had enough people treat him poorly in his life. Not saying that you will," he adds hastily at her expression. "I'm just trying to look out for him. He's my best mate."

"I respect that," Farren says, really meaning it. Being a Gryffindor she has always held loyalty in high esteem, though the general public would never believe this of her. But Farren shows loyalty as best she can to the people she deemed worthy. "But we only kissed once, James."

"I know," he smiles. "He seems particularly interested in you."

"You do realize we're talking about Sirius Black. The Sirius Black."

"Yes. And speaking of which, we never had this conversation. I'm pretty sure if the Sirius Black knew I'd said anything to you, he'd murder me in my sleep."

Farren raises her hand in the universal sign of scouts. "On my honor."

He pardons himself just as Sirius, Remus, and Peter enter the Great Hall.

She watches as the friends greet each other, and is suddenly jealous of them. Each pair of eyes light up; their entire bodies become more animated at the sight of one another. They make it seem as if their friendship is enough to sustain them through it all. As though everything else in life is just a meaningless extra measure.

Could anyone ever be like that with her? Farren doubts it. If she ever made anyone's eyes light up it would be because she was in a bikini or partially naked or something. She can hardly sustain herself, let alone another. She will never be capable of what these four friends have. Not even when she is old, withering, and dying. This is a definitive truth and it stings to know.

Farren's focus changes. Her eyes wander away from the boys, to land on Snape. He sits at the Slytherin table. The empty plate which gleams beneath him casts odd shadows over his features and the sight is a little frightening.

He has been watching her. And he does not stop; even after it is plain she has caught him in the act. The stare stuns Farren... No one has ever bore into her with such demand.

And she suddenly has the strangest desire to whisper something captivating and provocative to him. She wants to play with the necklace that hangs so tantalizingly near her breasts. But something stops the asinine urge: the image of him yelling tersely; of his fist coming down hard on the table.

The next image is different, slow. Though it is not a memory, it appears just as vivid. It is Snape, with his long fingers curled around her chin and tilting that triangular face upward to examine it fully. The expression he wears is that of hunger, and greed, a wild... longing. His lips are moving and odd words reach her.

"...No, but I see yours."

A man suddenly calls Snape's attention. His eyes flicker away, and the connection is broken as easily as if it had never happened.

Farren remains quite still, incapable of turning away. She has never experienced anything like that. It had almost felt as though Snape penetrated past her physical or even spiritual being. As though he caressed her mind and left her no means of hiding or escape. It is some revolutionary intimacy that is not entirely believable to her. Perhaps it had been her imagination playing tricks once more.

Finally able to avert back to her food, Farren gives a small shudder. I must be on a serious streak of sex deprivation if I'm having fantasies about Snape, she thinks.

But a part of her knows the thought to be empty. The image had made her heart beat faster; had parted her lips slightly in anticipation. And Farren is forced to acknowledge the reality that Snape intrigues her. He is a man of mystery, and - she hates to admit - the only one capable of beating her at her own game. But more than anything she feels that he could see her more clearly than anyone had or ever would be able to. A fact that both frightens just as much as thrills her.