Redemption Through Blood, Retaliation Through Tears

Redemption Through Blood, Retaliation Through Tears

Chapter One

"de Latimer-Snape, Airleas Nathaira,"

The entire hall was silent after McGonagall's words. Then the whispering started.

"...Did they say Snape..."

"...Maybe it's a distant relation..."

"...She doesn't look like a Snape..."

"...Well she does have black hair..."

Dumbledore attempted to restore order because he needed to make an announcement and that would be difficult with everyone talking. Everyone was not talking, however. Professor Severus Snape was sitting completely still and completely quiet, with one thought going around in his head over and over.

Why didn't Dumbledore tell me she was coming?

Dumbledore stood to speak, the whisperings slowly died.

"Miss de Latimer-Snape is transferring here from Beauxbatons for the remainder of her schooling due to her mother's death. She will be entering fifth year."

To anyone looking in, they would have seen no difference in Professor Snape's expression. That's because they weren't looking hard enough.

Now a new phrase was going around and around in his head.

'Her mother's death'.

He closed his eyes briefly, gave a faint shake of his head, and then returned to his former expression of stony potions master just in time to see Miss de Latimer-Snape approach the sorting hat.

Airleas de Latimer-Snape could really only be described in one way, petit. She was short, only 5'1", and very thin. Her hair was jet black and cascaded in loose curls all the way down her back. Her eyes were a very pale blue, kind of the color of the sky when it was mostly covered with clouds, and some people in the room, due to the lighting, thought her eyes were completely white.

Airleas looked out from the stage, looking calm, cool, and collected. Inside, she was anything but, however, the only way you would know this would be by the fact that her face was even paler than usual, more reminiscent of white chalk than the white parchment it typically resembled.

Everyone watched her as she walked over, sat down, and had the hat placed on her head, which not only went over her eyes, but also almost passed her nose.

"Oh, very interesting, very interesting. Well, there's certainly loyalty, to an extent, and definitely patience. Unquestionably intelligent, and you posses a logic that is quite akin to our dear Slytherins."

Not Slytherin.

"And bravery, oh yes, bravery, and in an odd way, chivalrous. But your potential for power could really be recognized in Slytherin."

Not Slytherin, anything but Slytherin.

"Not Slytherin? Are you sure? My goodness, this is the second time this has happened in five years."

Not Slytherin, any but my father's house.

"Well, if you insist, it's not for me to force someone into something they don't want. I suppose you would do quite well in...GRYFFINDOR!"

As this last word was announced, three things happened. One: Madam Hooch, who was taking a slip from her goblet, spit it all over the table. Two: There was a crash as Professor Snape's fork fell from his hand, hit his plate, and caused the entire ensemble to crash to the floor. And three: Airleas' face broke out in a smirk, highly reminiscent of a certain potions master.

Oh, and one more thing, everyone in the hall had approximately the same thought.

A Snape in Gryffindor?

Airleas, with a rather smug expression on her face, stood and walked over to the Gryffindor table in one fluid motion.

For most of the meal, Airleas sat quietly, until the girl sitting next to her turned to ask her a question.

"Hello, my name is Hermione Granger, and these are my friends Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. We were wondering if you're related to Professor Snape."

Harry cut in, "We thought you might be a distant relation,"

Airleas raised an eyebrow, "Yes, a very distant relation. He's only my father."

This was met with silence, from not only the trio, but from everyone in hearing distance.

"Um, yes, well," Ron, said, "They said your name was Airleas Nathaira. Is that your first name, or your first name and your middle name?"

"First name and middle name."

"Well, um, Airleas, that's a very pretty name."

"Mm,"

"Does anyone ever call you 'Air' or 'Leas' or something?"

With a glare that reminded them so much of their potions teacher that they shuddered, she replied, "No."

"Oh," Ron continued, "Um, sorry, P..." Ron's eyes suddenly widened as he sat back quickly in his seat and decided to be quiet.

Hermione nudged him, "What's wrong with you?"

"Oh dear God," he said, "I almost called her professor,"

He said this quietly; practically a whisper, but very few things escaped Airleas' attention. She smiled.

* * *

Professor Snape stormed out of the Great Hall, not really noticing if he knocked anyone over, not really caring.

"Ah, hello, you are Severus Snape, are you not?"

He rushed down the hall, and, being a Snape, and with the help of his black robes, he was able to make the action seem regal rather than flustered. His eyes looked sharp, as if they were focusing on something very important right in front of him, making everyone speed out of his way to keep from being in his line of sight. But he wasn't seeing anything; the eyes were focused inward.

"The next time you find the need to insult, Severus, please, consult me first. I am a native of this country, and I know where it stings the sharpest."

The professor felt a smile tug at his lips, as he could almost smell the summer rain and taste Nicolette's laughter. Nicolette. His amour, his l'etoile du norde, his page blanc.

"I love you, Severus, whatever you think you may have done, I love you."

At long last, he reached the entryway to his own private dungeons, he muttered the password and quickly entered. He stormed across the room, unclasping and throwing his cloak over the chair at his desk as he went. He poured himself a glass of Bordeaux; sitting down and swirling the blood colored liquid around in the clear container. He closed his eyes as he took the first sip.

"Adieu, we will not see each other again, Severus."

Snape calmly threw the glass against the wall and objectively watched the liquid and glass slide down the stone. He imagined the wine was blood and wished it were his.