in which inappropriate pop culture references are made
“What made you get rid of the beard?” she asked out of nowhere one evening, as they sipped cinnamon tea. There was a teasing lilt to her voice that led him to believe she was becoming fond of him. The nervous tentativeness of her conversation had vanished entirely. He was not sure this was a good thing.
“I'm sorry?” He looked at her oddly.
She set down her teacup and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. “Once, a few years after I'd left school, I saw you in Hogsmeade as I was leaving Madam Puddifoot's for the night. You had a little, like, beard-thing.” She made a twisting gesture around her chin, as if the visual would help recall the image of young, bearded, Snape.
He nodded slowly, an eyebrow still cocked in an expression that indicated he clearly thought she was ridiculous. “Is it important?” he replied, after a moment. Honestly, physical affectations did not particularly stand out in his mind, especially when they were his own. He could scarcely remember having a beard, let alone making a conscious decision to get rid of it.
Auriga seemed to consider the question. She shrugged. “It was kind of sexy, I guess. Made you look a bit like Hans Gruber.”
He boggled at her. “Who?”
“You know,” she prompted, “the villain from that Muggle film, Die Hard? It was really popular maybe seven or eight years ago. I saw it the summer before Dumbledore asked me to come to work here. Must be why I remember it so well.”
He covered his eyes with a calloused hand. “Really, Auriga.” His tone was incredulous. “You have got to be the only grown witch I know of that spends so much time at the...” He seemed to be groping for the word.
“Cinema,” she offered, and he nodded. “Yes, well, when I was a kid, my dad and I used to go to the cinema together. And, you know, I liked my father.” She seemed almost reproachful, when she said this, as if she thought Snape should have liked his father, too, regardless of how awful the man was.
He stood abruptly, causing Auriga to lose her balance and fall backward across the sofa. She huffed uncomfortably, as she tried to sit back up. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
It had occurred to him, as Auriga recounted bearded antagonists, that it was not an entirely good idea for him to be here, casually drinking tea with a woman he had once loathed fervently. Not only was he just adding to the things that Dumbledore could dangle gloatingly before him, anytime he suggested that maybe he didn't want to do this anymore, but her changing attitude rattled him more than a little.
Their eventual alliance had, at first, been an uneasy one. He had been lonely enough, and she vulnerable enough, that they had set aside their hostility. And they had slept together. Allowing her to get close to him, physically and otherwise, was, he supposed, where he had made his greatest mistake.
For the manner with which she now regarded him was intimate, and intimacy was not a luxury he could afford, these days. Anyone with whom he spent time enough to appear to care for-previously, only the old man had this distinction, and for a very specific reason-but anyone else would be in, not immediate, but certainly present, danger. He had enough with which to be concerned, without adding another person's well-being to the mix.
(He thought of what would happen, should his Master discover their liaison. Ssinistra, he would hiss, not recognizing the name but for its astronomical meaning, quite appropriate. And he would laugh a cold, high laugh and ask, But, is she worthy? Your... previous tastes might suggest otherwise. But the idea of her name on his Master's tongue was repulsive to him.)
It was then that he realized that he was still standing in the sitting room, staring blankly out the picture window into the starry night sky. “Sev?” a small voice cooed, and he had to shake his head several times to make sure he was not hearing things.
Auriga's tiny hand had reached up and taken hold of his. She was tugging at it like a small child. “Sev, is everything okay?” He dropped stiffly back to the sofa, but did not respond. She let go of his hand. Yes, this was going to be quite troublesome, indeed. But for whom, he could not precisely say.
For himself, certainly. He could not deny her attachment much longer, yet it felt wrong to accept it. He didn't love her, or at least, he didn't think so. He had loved a woman, once in his life, and she had died. He lived his life in her memory. There was no room for anyone else, and that was that.
But what would it do to her? He couldn't be sure. It would be selfish of him to wait and see, but then, he was never especially magnanimous.