The Confession of Miss Price

A few weeks later I was eating dinner in the Great Hall, an activity that I often found myself greatly enjoying. The din of the chattering students and staff reminded me of my own school days and came as a welcome relief from the oppressive silence of the hospital ward. My seat was in the far corner of the second to last table with most of the adjunct and non-teaching staff, few of whom I knew.

On this particular evening in mid September I was just finishing my meal and a conversation with the animated librarian's assistant when I sensed more than felt a hand on the back of my chair and heard the Snape's serious voice near my ear instructing me to meet him in the staff room. I nodded without turning my head and he swept away. Turning back to the man at my left who had conversed with me so easily, I saw that his eyebrows had risen nearly to his hairline. Clearing my throat and smiling politely, I excused myself.

--

Pushing open the heavy door to the staff room, I found him waiting, standing impossibly still in the center of the room.

"I will be going out tonight. I am to lead you to my rooms."

It was the most he had ever said to me at once. "Alright," I replied lamely. He sneered and strode past me and out the door.

I had always thought of myself as a fast walker, but I found myself struggling to keep up with his brisk determined strides as we descended to the castle's dungeons. He led me through the Slytherin common room, a dark, gloomy chamber that was slowly filling with students as the dinner upstairs was ending. We wound through a few more hidden corridors before finally arriving at a simple wooden door. Snape pulled out his wand and lowered what must have been some extremely complex and dangerous wards and pushed the door open. I followed him in.

The rooms of Slytherin's head of house turned out to be as somber as its common room. A wave of Snape's wand lit a number of candles and a fire in a small fireplace. The sitting room was sparse and threadbare, decorated only with a dark green couch and chair. The wall opposite the door was lined with bookcases. A desk with stacks of papers, most likely ungraded essays, stood in one corner.

Snape turned to me. "Don't touch anything," he commanded before disappearing into a connecting room. He reemerged a few minutes later wearing dark dress robes. I couldn't help stealing a glance into the other room as he reopened the door. I could only gather that it was a bedroom before he shut the door forcefully, his eyes narrowing at me in suspicion. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly uncomfortable. There was something incredibly intimate about being alone with him in his private quarters at the bottom of the castle. The room began to feel terribly small. Not knowing what to say, I was almost grateful when he began imperiously instructing me on how to behave in his absence.

"You are not to touch anything. You are not to look at anything. You are to stay in this room only. Do you understand?"

I sighed in irritation. "Yes," I responded, my frustration at being spoken to like a child overpowering my former awkwardness, "And I would appreciate it if you didn't speak to me like one of your students in future." He scowled and sneered predictably and left without a word.

After several interminable, excruciatingly boring hours of sitting on Snape's sofa, looking at and touching nothing, he returned. Standing in the middle of the room, he seemed lost in thought and uncharacteristically absent-minded as he gestured for me to leave.

--

The months carried on like this. About once a week, Snape led me down into the dungeons and I waited in his room until he returned. He never seemed to return with any serious injuries, only minor Cruciatus damage or superficial wounds that were easily healed and even some that he healed himself. More often than not, he was completely unharmed. I was beginning to wonder how necessary my presence really was.

More interesting than dealing with the elementary wounds he returned with was wondering how he would act when he returned. There were nights when he quietly dismissed me, as he had on the first night. There were other nights when he returned seething with anger and turned on me when I asked if he'd been hurt. He'd been surprised when he found that I could meet him shout for shout but I was always the one who regained my senses first and fled the room before letting things escalate. Somehow, these arguments always left me trembling though I couldn't remember being afraid of him.

Very rarely, twice in fact, there were nights when things were altogether different. He arrived quietly and I expected a routine dismissal. I stood, he faced me, his eyes dark and unreachable. "Do you want me to go?" I asked and, surprisingly, he shook his head and asked if I would like a drink. The first time we sat on his sofa, each with a goblet of elf-made wine, I did my best to make conversation. He was only mildly responsive and I found myself prattling on with few interjections on his part. It wasn't until later that night when I realized that he wasn't looking for conversation, he had just wanted the company. I didn't know why the thought that this man, unpleasant though he was, could be lonely affected me so deeply.

The second time this occurred, the circumstances were much the same and he remained mostly quiet. Though there were still nights when he would return only to argue and throw me out, I found myself warming to him. Perhaps I saw in him someone else who knew how lonely the castle could be, someone else who understood how easily one could isolate oneself. I have already admitted that I found his courage in the face of a dangerous assignment admirable. It's so hard to say now.

A long stretch of months passed during which I saw him only a few times. He was rarely summoned and only occasionally appeared at mealtimes. I felt the break in our routine acutely, though I chastised myself for such foolishness. It was mid-April when he discreetly pulled me aside as we passed each other on the way to breakfast. I ignored the way my pulse raced as he touched my elbow and nodded when he told me when to meet him.

--

He didn't return until very early in the morning. As he had once before, he arrived in a heap on the floor but something was noticeably different this time. He wasn't moving.

I gently moved him onto his back, calling his name, my mind erupting with worst-case scenarios. He had suffered extensive Cruciatus damage, the front of his robes was torn and blood dampened the dark fabric. One eye was blackened and a number of smaller, superficial cuts littered his face. Using my wand, I cut through what remained of his shirt, revealing three large gashes across his chest. With my advanced training, they were not terribly difficult to heal, but it was hard to tell how much blood had been lost. I searched through the healer's bag I had had the sense to bring, found and administered a blood replenishing potion. After casting some spells to attempt to help the pain from what must have been repeated Cruciatus curses, I decided that his condition was stable enough to use a levitation charm.

Opening the door to the bedroom I had once been forbidden to step foot in, I turned down the dark green comforter and ivory sheets. Returning to where he still lay motionless in the parlor, I knelt down, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his face and calling his name. I was answered with a distant moan. I delicately moved him to the bed.

After unbuttoning the cuffs of his overcoat and shirt, I somewhat clumsily slid the two layers over his shoulders and off his arms. I couldn't help staring for a moment at the Dark Mark, seared and black on his forearm; aside from pictures in books, I had never seen one so close. He was now conscious enough to notice my hesitation. "Don't," he murmured feebly. Looking up at him, he seemed painfully self-aware and I felt a swell of guilt for making such a clearly private man feel so exposed. Trying not to blush too furiously and being exceedingly careful to be as prudent as possible, I removed his boots, socks, and pants, the latter of which inspired a groan of protest from the weakened potions master.

As I moved away, I felt his hand touch mine in a gesture that might have been more forceful had he the strength. As it was, his fingers simply curled around my palm, his thumb resting on the back of my hand. What seemed like a long moment passed.

"Does anything else hurt?" I finally asked, the healer in me rising to the forefront.

"No," he replied, his face contorting as though he was thinking of saying something else. I hesitated for another second, trying not to notice how warm his hand was in mine.

"Good," I said, a little too cheerily, moving away again. I had nearly left the room when I heard it, ever so quietly but unmistakable,

"Thank you, Marianne"