Cloak and Dagger

Cloak and Dagger

She knew she shouldn’t be there. The thought of those cavernous rooms, tucked away in the dungeons, cold and empty, haunted her though. Professor Severus Snape had been gone, in hiding, for five years. He had wielded his wand as brutally as any knife or gun, as cold blooded, if not more so, as the act had been done from behind a veil of magic, distant and impersonal. All he had had to do was mutter an incantation, flick his wand and the act had been done: the older wizard had fallen. He had fled, pushed onwards by guilt or perhaps by a sense of self preservation. Over the years, rumours, whisperings, had abounded but they amounted to being just that – rumours. There were possible sightings in Northern Ireland, Scandinavia, Hawaii, even Borneo. Hermione Granger smiled and laughed softly at the last two suggestions. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Snape would blend in with a tacky lei strewn about his neck and garish Bermuda shorts riding his hips.

During her seventh year, everything changed. Harry disappeared to go on his mission to defeat Voldemort. Four and a half years later, he was still seeking out the final horcrux. She would receive the occasional owl with quick, curt messages more or less assuring her that he was still alive. Ron had graduated after their seventh year (only barely though), and he had been pressured into a job at the Ministry of Magic. He continued to lust after a career as an Auror, even as he remained stolidly in his seat behind his desk at the Ministry. As for Hermione, she had graduated with an armful of accolades, and then she had headed off to University. She had studied for three years before the call of Hogwarts drew her back. She took up a post as a teaching assistant – helping mark papers, organizing supplies, and generally doing anything to assist the professors. Which was how she found herself in Professor Snape’s quarters. She had become fascinated with the thought of the renegade wizard, enthralled with the idea of what made him tick. She was also curious about his chambers – how they would look, if they were tidy or in disarray as if their master were about to return at any moment. She found herself wondering if the rooms were cold, like their master’s cruel heart, and if they were just as dark. She had stifled that curiousity for so long – until that night.

She had slipped down the passageways, as silent as could be. She crept down to the dungeons, the torches on the walls throwing fearsome shadows against the rosy glow. She muttered a few choice words and the door swung open, squealing softly. She peered over her shoulder, her heart pounding, to ensure that she had not been followed, she had not been heard. She took a step then whispered an incantation. The door clicked shut behind her and a silencing charm fell over the room. It would not do to have someone hear her snooping about. Curiousity may have killed the cat, but she didn’t wish for it to kill her.

She glanced around the room. It was a fairly large room with walls lined with books. There were two leather armchairs turned towards the dusty fireplace. The burgundy leather was dusty and there were ashes still in the grate. Logs were piled haphazardly in the fireplace, just waiting for a fire to ignite them. A light blanket had been thrown over the back of one of the chairs. She could imagine Professor Snape sitting in one of those chairs after a day of giving lessons, his beaky nose in a book, a glass of fine wine or fire whiskey at his elbow. Sure enough, upon closer inspection, she saw a ring in the grain of the wood in the side table, as if something wet and sticky had been placed there long ago. The air was thick with a musty odour which seemed to cling to her hair and clothes. It was the smell of damp books and rooms that have not seen fresh air or sunlight for a very long time. She plucked a book from a shelf and rifled the pages idly. “A History of the Use of Moss in Potions.” She stifled a yawn and muttered “Fascinating reads you have here, Professor.” She was mildly surprised that everything appeared to have been left as Snape had left it. She had half expected the rooms to be empty, barren, as if by emptying them they could exorcise the evil he had perpetrated, that by emptying them they could erase him somehow. Everything appeared to have been left as he had left it – as if he would walk through the door at any moment. She felt a chill shoot down her spine, and she cast a nervous look towards the door. She wandered the room, idly picking up a book here, a quill there, turning them in her fingers for a moment before returning them to their places. A spill of parchment was draped across his desk, blindingly white against the gloom of the room. His writing was thick but elegant, quite lovely to look at with the long, straight lines and the delicately arching curves. The writing was very precise – very like the writer himself. She could imagine those pale hands with the long, sensitive fingers like a pianist’s clutching the quill as he inked the words like art. Somewhere along the way, he had spilled some ink and it lay on the parchment like a shadow, glistening as if it were still wet. She brought a fingertip to the ink but, of course, it was dry. It had had five years to dry. She noted how the chair was pushed away from the desk at an angle, as if the writer had suddenly sprung up from his seat, planning to return, but not doing so. She slowly slid the chair beneath the desk, careful to not make a sound. She padded into the next room and blushed. She had wandered into Snape’s bedroom. While she could imagine the main room as being warm and inviting, this room seemed suited only to its purpose – sleep. An enormous bed took up most of the space – black side curtains flowed down to the floor and a black counterpane shone softly in the dim light. On the one side of the bed, there was a high wardrobe in some dark wood, ebony perhaps, elaborately carved. Above the doors, two carved serpents twined together, their eyes inlaid with jet stones. The handles on the doors were carved to look like bent, skeleton fingers. Hooking a finger in each handle, she pulled the doors open. A series of black trousers, black shirts, and black robes hung in a neat row. She had never fathomed that Professor Snape had six robes. They had always assumed that it was the same drab, musty one he had wore everyday. She paused a moment, listening for any small sound, then she slipped a robe from its hanger.

********
From his place in exile, Severus Snape stirred from his sleep. He had been having the strangest dream, and he was still feeling rather puzzled. He had dreamt that someone had invaded his chambers, was sifting through his things, like that dreadful Muggle story-book child, Goldilocks. Only this one didn’t have golden hair. The intruder had hair the amber shade found in a tiger’s eye stone. Long, bushy hair that looked distinctly familiar. But it had been five years and Hermione Granger would surely be long gone from Hogwarts. Wouldn’t she? He felt some intuition stir within him, and he realized it hadn’t been a mere dream. Someone was, in fact, invading the sanctuary of his rooms. He closed his eyes, willing himself to mentally see into that room. Sure enough it was Hermione Granger, and his mind raced back to the rumours he had heard through the other Death Eaters. They had said she was a teaching assistant at Hogwarts – had been for the last year. She had been carefully measuring out potions supplies, marking essays, and tutoring the students. He sensed a movement in his bedchamber and felt a flicker of annoyance. He felt like his last sanctuary had been breached. She pulled his wardrobe open, thumbing through the clothes that hung there, finally pulling a robe from a hanger. She slid her own robe from her shoulders, allowing it to pool at her feet. He clucked his tongue and chuckled softly. She wore nothing beneath her robe save for a scant pair of lacy panties. She fingered the fabric of his robe, feeling the silk of it beneath her touch, for a long moment before slipping her arms into the sleeves.

“So it shall be.” He whispered to himself “Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.” And he laughed.

********
The lining of the robe was silk or some other smooth fabric that clung to her skin and skimmed over her body. The rows of buttons marched up the front of the robe, glittering like jewels. She idly toyed with a button before she started to fasten the robe. She grew tired of all the buttons by the time she was only half way done. How the Professor could have the patience to fasten all those buttons everyday she couldn’t imagine. He must have spelled them closed, otherwise his fingers would be sore and arthritic. The robe gaped at her chest and she clutched at it with her one hand to maintain some sense of modesty. In the back of her head, she found herself wondering if the Professor wore anything beneath his robe. His robes were always so long and encompassing, he could easily be naked beneath them and no one would be able to tell. A faint musky scent rose from the cloth, a distinctly masculine smell, not entirely unpleasant. The cuffs brushed against her palms, tickling a little. She had to clutch the hem in her fist to keep from tripping on the fabric. She roamed around the room, swiping a fingertip across the night table, leaving a shining path amid the dust. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, at her bare legs poking out from beneath the inky robe. She looked rather like a child playing dress up. She quickly pulled down the counterpane. The satin sheets were an unusual shade of green, the same shade of that treacherous Muggle drink – absinthe, softly glowing, almost radiating in the spare light. She noted the imprint of a head on the pillow. Again, she was struck with a sense of urgency, for what she wasn’t sure. Her eyes darted around the room nervously, but she saw nothing to cause panic. Then, she felt a hand at her hair and she jumped. She looked around and saw nothing. The hand was still there, caught in her curls, softly teasing at the nape of her neck. Then, another hand was at her shoulder, a finger lazily trailing down the side of her neck, sweeping over her collarbone. She brought her hand to her shoulder, clutching for that other hand, finding only air. The one hand trailed down from her collarbone to cup her breast, the thumb stroking the nipple slowly, stoking a slow fire within the pit of her stomach. She looked down. The robe was moving as if there was an earthly hand beneath it. She pulled the fabric away from her chest and saw the cloth still rising and falling, shifting with the phantom touch.

“Who’s there?” She whispered. She cursed herself for sounding scared, for sounding like such a child. She was in Hogwarts, after all. It was an enchanted castle with its own ghosts. Surely it could be…. She shook her head gently as the finger continued to ply her breasts. The ghosts had been terrified of Snape when he had taught there. He had been equally as fearsome to the spirits as he had been to his students. In his absence, he had reached an almost mythical status – a bogeyman. A threat of a word to Snape was often enough to stop Peeves in his tracks. None of the spirits would dare venture into the dungeons. One ghostly hand slid down the curve of her hip, toying with the band of her panties. She peered down the robe – the elastic was shifting as if it had a life of its own. The other hand was tripping down her spine, resting at the small of her back. She could feel a presence behind her, even if she couldn’t see it. She could feel warm breath on the nape of her neck, then a pair of lips barely touching between her shoulderblades. She could hear breathing behind her, the soft rhythm in each exhalation.

“Who is it?” She hissed, craning her head around fitfully, peering into the shadows. One of the phantom hands reached up to lay an invisible finger to her lips to still her words. The other hand cupped her cheek, the unseen palm so very warm against her skin. She could feel how long and elegant those unseen fingers were as they lay on her flesh. Her breath caught in her throat. The hands slid down, snaking up the sleeves of the robe, brushing against the sensitive skin at her inner arm. Her eyes widened as she watched the sleeves slide higher and higher up her arms. The hands moved away and the fabric slithered back down to her palms. Then, the buttons were slowly coming undone, sliding from their catches one by one until the robe hung open. As each button was released, she could feel fingers fumbling at the robe, pushing the buttons through. The warm lips were moving on her hair, at the nape of her neck. The hands were roving over her body, tracing over her breasts, the curves of her hips as if trying to sculpt her. The fingers plucked at the band on her panties and they slithered to the floor. Unthinking, she stepped out of them and kicked them away. One hand was slowly traveling up her thigh, then the other. She felt the lips pressing gentle but insistent kisses on the swell of her stomach and between her breasts. She gasped when she felt the hands between her legs, the fingers drawing her nether lips apart. She felt the fingertips dancing around the nub, then, they were rubbing the sensitive bit of flesh. She bit her lip, trying to hold her silence. Then, one slender finger slipped into her, then another, finally a third. A slow rhythm built until she was rocking back and forth on her heels. She pressed her arm against her lips, the soft fabric caressing her face, the musky odour enveloping her. The hands slid away but the lips remained, pressed against the base of her throat, feeling her every breath. The word was on her tongue, waiting to be spoken, but she swallowed it down, not wishing to say it just yet, not sure if she wanted to know the answer. The robe felt so soft against the peaks of her breasts, the silk deliciously cool as it clung to the insides of her legs. The cloak shifted around her as if a strong wind had caught it and the air was chill. She could feel the presence, whatever it was, receding, being pulled away. Suddenly, the word fell from her lips unbidden.

“Professor?” She whispered. Her only answer was a low, cruel-sounding chuckle. She slid her arms from the robe and threw it onto the bed. Then and only then was the presence gone. She caught up her panties from the floor, clutched them in her hand, slipped into her robe and ran from the room.

From its place on the bed, the robe shifted, as if a spirit had left, a breath of life had faded.