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Spy vs. Spy	By : Sakuracelt Category: HP Canon Characters paired with Original Characters > Het - Male/Female Views: 15746 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter, or any of JK Rowling's characters. This is just fanfiction, and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 10
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- 12
A month went by. Nothing. Not a word from Freya, although he supposed it was absurd for him to expect anything. New year’s came and went. Dolores Umbridge had begun her terrible reign. The students were miserable, and so was the staff, but Severus had his own reasons for spending all of his free time alone, and unhappy. The guilt was almost unbearable, but he was a Slytherin after all, and it was difficult not to be aroused by the memory of their last encounter. This made it worse. He had used her, to be certain, but in a way she had used him as well. “You’ve been a very welcome distraction,” she had said. Freya was not a person who was used to speaking openly about her emotions. Neither was he. She had not been willing to discuss her grief at the loss of her friend Sean, the bartender who had been murdered the night she’d taken him to The Locke. His reaction to the news had broken her control, but the hard truth was that Severus was far more used to death, and he kept his emotions firmly in check. A war was coming, and Freya was still young in many ways. Sean’s death would not be the last. His cheekbone had been tender for three days from the blow she’d given him, although Madam Pomfrey had fixed it in an instant. Perhaps she’d been right, that night on top of the astronomy tower. Maybe they were bad for one another. He didn’t care. He missed her.
            Severus spent each evening in front of the fireplace, whiskey in hand as he contemplated the painting she’d left behind. In a display of what could only be called “artistic madness”, she’d slashed the canvas open, leaving large unseemly rents in a sea of reds and pinks. In some places, she’d used her nails, gouging out great chunks of color, leaving raw substrate behind. It was the sort of piece that many viewers, wizard and muggle alike, would have sneered at, but the more he looked at it, the more he thought he could see a sort of method behind the madness. It felt right somehow. Somewhere, in the flow of scarlet, in the unraveling canvas, in the smudges and smears, it became unified and satisfying to look at. It was a visual representation of grief, but he thought he could glimpse a seething urge for vengeance. “I want them to suffer.” She had confessed.
Freya had spent several years hiding her true nature from Barty Crouch, and from wealthy deatheaters like the Malfoys. While she did not possess the control that he did, honed and perfected from years of practice, he thought that this painting was perhaps the key to her success. She poured herself into her work, so that she would not need to carry the weight of her emotions around with her. It was the reason Lupin had lost his temper with her. It was the reason he’d been unable to see past her indifferent treatment of him. She had tried to block him out, and he had reacted poorly. Still, what kind of man did that make him? One who is afraid, he thought.
It took several hours of pacing and unnecessary busy work for him to drum up the courage to write to her. He could have shown up on the doorstep, demanding entrance to Grimmauld place, blasting the door open if necessary. In a perfect world, he’d have swept her into a fiery kiss, crushing her body to his like the cover of some trashy romance novel. He’d carry her to her room, giving Sirius the finger if possible, and they’d make sweet, passionate love on every available surface until they were both too sore to move. This was an absurd fantasy, more befitting of some bloody Gryffindor. She would probably hex his balls off, if he showed up without an invitation. Hell, she might have done that anyway.
  Quill and ink in hand, he wrote “Dear Miss Lupin,” then immediately crossed it out and crumpled the bit of parchment in his fist. It was too formal, and it made him sound like he was addressing a student. “Dear Freya,” He hesitated, realizing he had no idea what to say. He wanted to make amends. He wanted to see her again. How could he do that without making a complete fool of himself? The letter sat blank for another twenty minutes before he decided to go for a walk to clear his head. This was somewhat uncharacteristic of him. Usually he was perfectly content to mull about the dungeons, feeling more at home among his books and his many jars of creepy anatomical bits. “Outside” usually meant people, but at least the students would be huddled in their common rooms, preferring friends and fire to the bitter cold.
            As he dressed, he found himself gazing at the large cast iron cauldron Freya had left for him, and decided now was as good a time as any to put everything where it would be of the most use. This was, of course, an excuse to waste time and not think about his letter. He hefted the bulbous thing into his laboratory, and sat it down on the table with a small thunk. When he pulled out the crystal vials, he held each one in his palm as though testing its weight, when he was really staring at the delicate writing on each individual label. The letters were gracefully wrought with subtle and unnecessary bits of calligraphy, much prettier than his own immaculate, clipped handwriting. She had taken her time with these, and his heart sank as he imagined her tattooed fingers dotting each “I” with a tiny, skillful flourish. He had not thanked her properly, not even for the tiny vial of witches blood, which she had collected from a single prick of her thumb. He would remedy that, if he could.
When he had finished putting the ingredients away, he found a small brown parcel at the bottom of the cauldron that he had not noticed before. Frowning, he picked it up, and tugged at the knot of simple twine that held it together. She had wisely not bothered with bows or ribbons. He had to admire her discretion. A lump formed in his throat as he unraveled an exquisitely soft woolen scarf of mossy green so dark it was almost black. It was not perfect, but it was long and warm and he knew that she had knit it herself. Another surge of hot guilt rippled through his gut, and he had to pause and rub the bridge of his nose.
“I am such an arsehole.” He muttered to himself, before he knotted the scarf around his neck and left his rooms for the first time in days. The air was crisp and bitter cold, but it felt good to take great lung fulls of the stuff. Snow crunched beneath his boots, and he noted that the scarf must have been stitched with some sort of clever heating charm, for it kept him exceedingly warm. He did not really know where he was going, but felt himself drawn to the lake. For some reason, he thought the sight of the icy grey waters would make him feel better. It didn’t. The color reminded him of her eyes, and he could only too clearly imagine Freya sitting on one of those great boulders, perhaps drawing the castle, indifferent to the chilly wind as it stirred her hair, so red against the white of the landscape. The poetic nature of these thoughts made him feel ill. Soon he’d be wearing cardigans with patches on the elbows and writing horrible snippets about his feelings. Scowling, he headed back, thinking to drown his bitterness in firewhiskey, when to his surprise, Professor Sprout poked her head out of the greenhouse, and shouted at him.
“Come in, you great lump. I’ve got a hot toddy ready.” Her tone was kind, but left no room for argument. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he thought to ignore her and continue back to his chambers, but his feet did not obey, and he followed her inside. Although the glass was frosted white with shimmering ice crystals, the greenhouse was very comfortable, as the temperature was controlled by magic. Herbology was taught year round at Hogwarts, no matter the weather. A very large, menacing looking venus fly trap growled at him, and inched its tendrils closer to snatch him up. He flicked it on what might have been its snout, and it squeaked, withdrawing instantly to shiver under a canopy of leaves. Pamona Sprout hovered over a steaming cauldron of simmering Scottish whiskey, and deftly poured him a generous mug, before gesturing to a large, overstuffed armchair with a horrible floral pattern on it. It was ugly, but very comfortable. “Severus…” She said briskly, as she sat across from him and sipped at her own drink. She smacked her lips thoughtfully. “We never see you in the staff room anymore, Severus. We’re starting to miss you. Care to tell me what’s wrong?”
Snape scowled at her. “If you’re in the mood for gossip like some bored old nanny, go and bother somebody else.”
“Don’t be stupid. Drink your toddy.” She snapped brusquely, reminding him terribly of Molly Weasley, who never faltered beneath his expertly practiced glares either. Rolling his eyes, he took a sip. The liquor was sweetened with honey and spices, and it would have warmed even the coldest disposition. He nodded appreciatively, and she grinned conspiratorially. “It might interest you to know that I received a letter from Freya this morning.” Sprout gave him the tiniest smirk as he steadied himself, unwilling to show any hint of emotion, although his stomach did a peculiar flip.
“And why would that concern me, Pamona?” He asked silkily. She sighed.
“You’re being stupid again. It concerns you because she very subtly inquired after your well being. Shall I tell her you’ve been sulking about in the dungeons, or would you like me to tell her something else?” She studied him thoughtfully as he processed this, unable to help but feel a tiny spark of hope. Freya had asked about him. “Unless you were planning on writing to her yourself?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was in the middle of it before…” He spat angrily, then stopped himself. Her eyes were twinkling in a way that made him very uncomfortable. Sprout and Snape were on relatively friendly terms, as he so often required the use of her plants for his potions, and he was quick to brew a tonic whenever her arthritis was acting up, or if one of her mandrakes came down with a case of the mumps. However, he did not particularly like the way she gossiped with her colleagues, especially when the gossip was about him, and he knew he was only adding fuel to the fire.
“I’d get a move on if I were you, Severus, before she disappears again. Freya can be terribly impulsive. She was one of my brightest pupils, you know.” She mused wistfully, taking another sip of toddy. Snape looked startled for a moment. Somehow he’d forgotten that Sprout was the head of Hufflepuff, and naturally would have known Freya fairly well as a student. “Yes, very bright. Not that her grades showed that, mind you.” Snape wondered why she thought this was relevant, but said nothing. “Highly intelligent, and talented, but…ah well you know those types. The curriculum was never interesting enough for her. She was always skipping class, for one thing or another. I’ll never forget the time I found her bullying the house elves into teaching her how to make scones, of all things.” She chuckled fondly. “I never knew what would capture her imagination next.”
“She was a troublemaker, I hear.” Snape recalled the incident in his classroom, when she had made that marking on her face, and kicked the table over. In a strange way, it was similar to the performance art she would pursue later in her career after Hogwarts.
“Ha! That’s an understatement. I did have a very enlightening conversation with her shortly before she left.” Severus pretended to be indifferent at this, but of course she knew he was listening intently. “She was going to offer drawing lessons to her students during her free time. When I asked her why, she looked very annoyed with me, then said ‘I know some of us would rather churn out good little witches and wizards like some bloody imbecile factory, but if we don’t offer at least one creative outlet in this school, than we’d better not act surprised when some of them would rather skip class to smoke under the quidditch bleachers.’“ She recited all of this with enormous fondness.
“Ridiculous.” Snape sneered halfheartedly, still trying in vain to act indifferent, although he shouldn’t have bothered. Pamona’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Really? I thought she rather sounded like you, Severus.” He had no answer for this, but took a very long, thoughtful gulp of his hot toddy. “I heard a…very interesting rumor, the other day. I won’t say who let it slip, but…I heard that Freya is living with Sirius Black now.” She eyed him very hard, but he met her gaze with carefully stoic one. “Now, I for one don’t believe everything the ministry says about him but…”
“What exactly are you getting at, Pamona?” He asked darkly, causing her to wince just a little, but she puffed herself up and glared almost haughtily at him. Sirius Black was a sensitive issue as far as Snape was concerned. He was perfectly aware of the fact that as they spoke, the woman he wanted was shacked up with a man who’d once gone twelve years without a witch’s touch. The thought sickened him.
“Severus Snape, you know as well as I do that that man will have her out of her knickers faster than you can say ‘mimbulus mimbletonia!” She slammed her mug onto the table a bit too hard, and narrowed her eyes at the horrified expression that twisted Snape’s features. “Now…what would you have me write? That you’ve been hiding in the dungeons since she left? Or shall I tell her something a bit less revealing?”
“Tell her…” He paused, trying to come up with a tactful response. “Tell her she is in my thoughts.” Pamona grinned sweetly at him, and he felt a burning in his cheeks, although his expression was carefully guarded. Sprout gave him another piercing look.
“And will you write to her?” She prodded.
“I will.” He conceded.
“Good. That’s settled then.” She said, obviously quite pleased with herself. “Oh and Severus…” She added when he stood up to leave. “Give her this when you see her. A gift from me.” She tossed him a tiny brown leather pouch that positively reeked of cannabis, and winked at him. Severus could not help but grin back at her.
The words came much more easily to him, the next time he was faced with his letter. Somehow, his conversation with Professor Sprout had given him a burst of confidence. It had reminded him that underneath it all, Freya had been sorted into Hufflepuff for a reason. She could be as stubborn as the rest of them, but in spite of everything, she did have a capacity for forgiveness that many did not. He’d seen that after she’d recovered from the poison that nearly claimed her life. Lucius Malfoy may have tried to murder her, but she’d flatly refused to treat his son any differently. Draco was a student, not his father. There was only way to get back in her good graces. He had to acknowledge her feelings, and humbly admit that he was an arsehole.
“Dear Freya,
            Before you toss this letter aside, please allow me to say just one thing. I am sorry for everything. I am sorry for your loss, and I am sorry that I behaved so absurdly in the wake of it. Please know that Sean’s death was not your fault. We are both pawns in a game that is much larger than ourselves. You must not punish yourself.
As you are well aware, we both possess something of a darker nature, and I believe that ultimately it is this that has attracted us to one another. For better or worse, we have certain similarities, and I’m afraid I did not appreciate your other complexities as well as I should have. Your past is as dark as my own, yet you’ve retained the wit and charm that enables you to have friends who love you. This is a skill that I have never possessed, and although I pride myself in my ability to read people, you have remained something of a mystery.
I kept your painting, and I find it beautiful, but in studying it I am forced to admit that my actions toward you on Christmas were unforgivable. When we made love in my chambers, (and I see now that yes, it was indeed making love) I was touched more deeply than I had realized. You gave me a part of yourself, and I failed to appreciate it. What I perceived as coldness in your demeanor afterward angered me, but this does not excuse my insensitivity. If I could do it over, I assure you that my actions would be much different. At this point, I am reminded of that evening in the great hall when you informed me that my timing was ‘complete shite.’ You may be right. I am truly appalled with myself. You deserve a better man. A nobler person than I might concede this honor to someone else, but I must ask you…will you give me a chance to become that man?
Sincerely yours,
Severus Snape.

Ps: I wore the scarf you made me today. Is it charmed, or is the added warmth simply because every stitch passed through your elegant fingers?

Snape read the letter several times before taking it to the owlery. After choosing the fastest bird he could find, he watched it disappear into the snowy grey sky, feeling anxious but ultimately pleased that he had taken some sort of action. Severus Snape had never before held a witch’s affections. He’d had plenty of one night stands, but this was different. He was in love for the second time in his life, but this was not a teenaged infatuation. This love could not have come at a worse time, but he supposed one could never truly be ready for it. Loving Lilly Evans had been easy. Loving Freya was a gamble. Their lives were at risk. It was a strange, and rather frightening feeling. Looking back, he knew that his behavior on Christmas had come from a place of fear more than anything else. The gift she had given him had seemed like a sign that Freya wanted something more, and he had retaliated by trying to push her away. Now that she’d left, he felt her absence as keenly as if he’d lost a limb. He remembered the things he had called her, and the words echoed in his skull, mocking him. They both liked it rough, but he had used her own desires against her, and now he realized he may have lost her.
To his utter amazement, the owl returned to him the very next morning, scratching at the door of his dungeon chambers with one claw, and puffing its ruffled chest out, clearly proud of itself. Absentmindedly, he gave it a few knuts, and slammed the door. It hooted loudly, admonishing him for his rudeness, but he was already at his fireplace, holding the letter up to the light as if it might contain some sort of nasty jinx, which, knowing Freya, it very well might have. He hesitated, then gently broke the wax seal, and opened it.
Dear Severus,
         I am trying very hard to be sulky and unpleasant, and I don’t know if I appreciate your clever lines, or your suspiciously sincere apology, or your gorgeous handwriting. That bit about the scarf? How am I supposed to be angry with you when you throw me a line like that? Damn, you’re good. I’m afraid that if you were hoping for a longer sentiment, I will disappoint you. Writing is not my strong suit, but I will say this; the worst thing about being a Hufflepuff is that you have this annoying tendency to want to see the best in everyone, and apparently I am no exception. Come see me at Grimmauld place if you can, and prepare to grovel properly. I want to trust you. Don’t bugger it up.
Love, Freya.

PS: Your timing is still shite.

Severus read the letter. He read it again. And again. He felt almost dizzy with relief. She was giving him another chance. He reminded himself to give Pamona an extra large bottle of Ogden’s Old. A genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he hurriedly dressed himself in his warmest clothes, including the scarf, because he did indeed like it very much, and went outside. Classes would be starting soon, but curriculum be damned. He had a witch to win back.
Apparating in cold weather was always particularly uncomfortable, like being forced feet first through a very frigid tube, and there was always a nasty feeling as though you were about to become stuck, although this was not, strictly speaking, true. When he appeared at the corner of Hogsmeade, he slipped for a moment on the icy cobblestones, but regained his balance without falling. There were several students here, enjoying their day off by spending the money they’d received for Christmas on Zonko’s products or Madam Puddyfoot’s seasonal hot chocolate. Some of them looked at him in alarm as he walked by, not used to seeing their snarkiest professor outside of Hogwarts, but he ignored them with gritted teeth. He was not going to show up on Freya’s doorstep empty handed. He considered the usual things. Meade. Chocolate. He came very close to stepping into Gladrag’s Wizardwear after eyeing a very pretty cloak woven from wool dyed the deepest plum, but thought better of it. Somehow it didn’t feel personal enough to give her a garment, although he thought the cavernous hood would look very nice against her dark red hair.
Surprisingly, the perfect gift was not at all difficult to find. It was there, in the window of Scrivenshaft’s Quills. A very sturdy, spiral bound sketch book, with the words “140 lbs, 63 Kilograms. Cold press, archival” written beneath it. He was unsure what this meant, not being well versed in types of paper deemed suitable for drawing, but decided that the risk was worth it. Upon further inspection, he found that it was in fact the twin to another identical sketchbook, and was meant to give particularly artsy students a way of doodling discreetly to one another without the hassle of passing notes. Smirking, he bought them both, as well as a set of inks, which, if drawn with, would allow the images to move. He paid extra to have the books re bound in shiny brown dragon’s hide, and reinforced with a charm that would make the books impossible to open, save by the owners.
When he left Flourish and Blott’s, he found that it had begun to snow. In order to protect his purchases, he tucked them safely beneath his heavy cloak, then jumped, suddenly startled when he felt something brush his leg. Swirling the cloak aside, he found himself staring into the vibrant green eyes of a very tiny black kitten. It attempted to mew at him, but its vocal chords were not developed enough, so it came out as a pathetic sort of squeak. Scowling, he stepped over it, and continued on his way. It followed him, struggling to keep up as its little white paws sank into the snow, which was only a few inches high at most. It squeaked again, and Severus stopped, then winced as it began to rub against his boots again. He looked around, looking to see if its mother was around, but there were only shoppers, and no one appeared to be searching for a lost pet. Sneering in annoyance, he bent over and gingerly picked the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, peering suspiciously into its face. He pulled out his wand and touched it to the creature’s tiny nose. “Reveal yourself.” He muttered, thinking that perhaps the kitten was an animagus, or carried some bit of dark magic. The kitten yawned. It had a white tuft of fur on its chin. “Ugh…Very well.” He snapped at no one in particular. Severus Snape may have been a hard man, but he wasn’t the type of monster to leave a stray kitten out in the snow. “I suppose you’ll just have to come with me. I’m meeting a very important lady, so you’d better not embarrass me.”
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Spy vs. Spy