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Slanaighear Ofrail An Seangharra	By : pittwitch Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 5226 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The afternoon sun cast deep shadows across the clearing as Orra stared balefully at the man glowering back at her with unfathomable eyes. The sounds of the forest around them became louder with each passing minute. Finally, Orra beckoned him with one hand. Carefully, Snape stood and warily picked his way over a fallen tree. As he entered the circle, he felt the faint tingle of magic as he stepped between two of the stones jutting from the ground. Curious, he stopped and turned back to study them more closely. Squatting down, he placed one hand on the closest stone and felt the weak buzzing whir of innate magic. His sharp eyes studied the forest more closely then. Quickly, he registered the proliferation of yew trees. Ahhh, a druid place.

Orra interrupted his ponderings by calling out, softly, without remonstration in her voice, “Severus?”

He turned towards her, mentally noting to return to his study of the area as soon as possible. “Yes?”

“Come see.”

She peered at him from her knees, one hand still resting on the marbled stone that had appeared in place of his cursed belongings.

“Another stone?” Severus asked with a hint of contempt. “There seems to be an abundance of stones here, Orra.”

“This wasn’t here this morning.” Orra glared at him while stroking the stone with her fingers. “This is exactly where we buried your cape thing and mask with the curse attached.”

He first stared disbelievingly at her, then at the black stone marked with swirling silver and white.

“Indeed?” he asked, as curious now as he had been about the other stones. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it as well, fully expecting the same buzzing, whirring vibration of innate magic. But, this rock was merely a rock, smooth and cool to his touch, inanimate in every way he knew.

“Do you think it could be some sort of sign?” Orra wondered aloud, hand resting near his, but her eyes searching the heavens.

“A sign?” he snorted incredulously. “From whom?”

“God, maybe,” she whispered. Rising, she stood over him, her hands on her hips, pondering the man before her. “Perhaps …” She paused, to peer into the tree tops, “It is simply a way show that all is well now.”

“If I were a believing man,” he began as he too gained his feet, brushing off his clothes with a mild distasteful sneer.

“I believe,” Orra affirmed simply, as if her faith was enough for two, then started for the cottage once more, leaving a baffled Snape to follow her through the woods.

~*~
“She believes!” rejoiced Brighit.

“Believes in what exactly?” Morrigan grumbled, still disgruntled over nearly being caught by the warrior-wizard she had been watching so closely for so long.

“Does it matter? She believes,” Niamh murmured, passing her hand over the silvery surface of the reflecting pool, banishing the image.
~*~

As they stepped out of the relative darkness of the trees, Orra stopped short. A strange car was parked next to hers, and John Murphy leaned against her doorframe, obviously waiting for her to return.

“Fuck me,” she swore quietly but with a vehemence that stunned Snape, whose fertile mind locked solely on the possibilities conjured with her breathy request. “Fuck me,” he thought, completely taken aback by the sudden stirrings of long-dormant feelings.

“What do you want now, Murphy?” Orra asked angrily.

“I don’ want anything except to apologize,” he growled back at her, eying Snape with supreme suspicion. “Out for a walk in the woods, eh?”

“Yes. Not that it’s any business of yours. My friend wanted to see the circle.” Orra glowered at the officer, color rising in her cheeks.

“Still can’t believe you stayed here,” Murphy grumbled.

“Why would I leave? This is my home.”

“After everything that happened? I’d be thinking about movin’ as far away as humanly possible.”

“Good for you,” she sniped. “Now what the hell do you want?”

“I wanted to apologize for accusing you of hiding Richard.”

“What?” Orra stared at him, stunned motionless in wide-eyed wonder.

“I. Am. Sorry. For. Accusing. You. Of. Hiding. Richard. O’Shea!” He paused after each word for emphasis and with a wince and grimace of discomfiture. Orra struggled to suppress her laughter as she caught Snape’s eye and the bastard winked at her.

“Is there something else, Murph? Something perhaps a wee bit more personal?” she taunted him just a little, recalling Snape’s more creative use of his wand earlier in the day.

“Fuck, Orra. I’ve got boils all over my arse and the itching is driving me mad.”

Orra could no longer contain herself and burst out laughing, snorting for air. Snape arched an eyebrow disapprovingly at her antics, crossing his arms and simply attempting to stare down the officer.

“Come again, Murph?” she teasingly pretended not to understand.

“My arse is itchy, like mad. I can’t hardly stand it.”

“What do ya think I can do about boils?” Orra stuttered, drawing in breaths with short little giggling gasps.

“Oh, now, come on, Orra. Surely you have a salve of some sort,” Murphy nearly begged.

“No, but I suppose I could make something. Ya gonna call me a witch for that?”

“No, ma’am,” he vowed reverently. “If’n you can make this itch stop, I swear on my honor I’ll never call you a witch again.”

Snape stood back watching the strange banter between the two. He scowled disapprovingly when Orra started for her kitchen door. “Inside with you then.”

Murphy nearly bounded into the cottage while Snape retained his dignified glide and eased past the stocky garda who had stopped just inside the kitchen door, seemingly reluctant to enter completely.

As soon as she entered her cozy kitchen, Orra automatically reached for her cast-iron pot, filled it with tap water, and set it to boil on the stove. Murphy leaned uncomfortably against the doorframe while Snape eyed him coolly.

Opening the door to the cabinet nearest to her, Orra pondered aloud, “Marjoram, flaxinella or sage?” as she stood in front of her cupboard with its shelves filled with tiny plastic vials clearly labeled and stacked alphabetically.

A well-ordered mind, thought Snape, with an arched eyebrow as the only outward sign of his thoughts.

Anal much? thought Murphy, grimacing away his smirk.

“Marjoram?” asked Snape.

“Dittany of Crete,” Orra replied absent-mindedly as her fingers brushed over the black ink lettered labels.

His estimation of the woman increased by the slightest fraction. “Flaxinella?” he queried again.

“White dittany,” she answered without breaking her focus. Murphy shifted from one side of the door to the other as he watched the strange pair.

Finally, having grown bored with watching her as she weighed their benefits in her mind, Snape offered in his instructor’s voice, “Sage will soothe an itch and the dittany of Crete, well, should heal any open sores.” He struggled to maintain his cool posture and not snigger at the plight of the garda.

“True, very true.” Orra removed two containers from their shelf and set them on the counter to her left. She nodded in approval as she checked the status of her almost-boiling water.

“Murph, go strip down and lie on my bed. I’ll need to, uh …” she stuttered a bit, a faint pink creeping onto her cheeks, “ … reach the area in question.”

Snape stifled his snicker. Murphy glowered but stomped through the kitchen, passing the smug visitor without saying a word.

Orra pulled a stone mortar and pestle from a low shelf under her cabinets, then added equal amounts of sage and dittany of Crete. She began to grind the herbs into a powdered form while the water began to boil merrily on the stove. Snape was struck by her profile as the setting sun eased its ever-fading rays through the paneled window, highlighting her hair with a fiery halo.

She dipped a small ladle into the water, then poured it into the mortar, mixing her herbs into a poultice. Satisfied, she scraped the extra from the pestle and tossed it into the sink. She turned the fire out under the pot, picked up the mortar and turned to move to her bedroom. Snape blocked her way.

“Are you certain this is prudent, Orra?” he asked with mild concern.

“Sure’n I can’t leave him with an itchy arse forever, now can I?”

“I would,” Snape grumbled. “Rest assured they will heal on their own.”

“Do no harm,” she murmured with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Pardon?”

“Me ma, first rule of …” she started, then stuttered, as if remembering something else entirely. “Never mind. He made amends and asked for help. I can’t refuse.”

Can’t refuse? Snape thought incredulously, his mind churning, Did she not have a choice for me, either? Did that old bastard have her take a vow of some sort?

Before he could speak, she had brushed past him, heading for her bedroom where a shame-faced Murphy lay across her bed, hiding his red face in her pillow with his red arse in the air.

Orra stopped short in the doorway, eyes widening in amazement at the sight before her. Murphy’s arse was pockmarked with angry red wheals; a few near the creases of his legs were rubbed raw and open.

“Murph,” she sighed his name with a deep sadness.

“S’all right, Orrs.” He tilted his head a bit to look her in the eye with one of his. “Really, I deserve worse, don’t I? Karma and all.”

“No, Murph,” she whispered. “Water under the bridge.”

“Such a long time ago -- so young and stupid …”

Snape stood to the side of the door, eavesdropping but not wanting to peer inside.

“We were all so young and stupid …”

“I was more than most,” he confessed sincerely.

“I didn’t do this, Murph.”

“I know, Orrs. You’ve always been too gentle to hurt anyone.”

“I wouldn’t wager your pay on that,” she added as she sank onto the bed next to him.

Me either, thought Snape as he touched a finger to the knife wound she had left on his chest.

“Let’s patch this up so you can …” Orra paused, smiling secretively, while her fingers soothingly applied the poultice to the worst of the boils first, “… enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“Thanks for that, Orrs.” Murphy winced as she touched a particularly raw spot with excoriated, oozing lesions. “I’d not be enjoying anything tonight if you wouldn’t …”

“Sssshhhh, s’all right. I know how she can be.” Orra chuckled a bit before she began to hum as she worked.

Outside the door, leaning against the wall, once more Snape was overcome by the music, a song that started out as a soft, absentminded hum, growing until the words captured his imagination, their magic weaving a spell around him, a spell he couldn’t yet sense. She hummed most of the melody, soft words intermittently spilling from her lips.

… the song we gleaned from the night. Sing me a story, a song to set all to right, only for my ears to hear chase away all of my fear.

Snape sighed, used one hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, and leaned his head back against the wall.

Capture each note, rising up with the dew on the grass, the soft harmonies which form our melody. And gently bind our two yearning souls, thou to mine and mine to thee.

Snape’s hands trembled slightly. Disgusted with his own uncontrolled reactions, he folded his arms over his chest, holding his arms tightly to stem the shaking.

Sing softly to me, sweet prince, of the secrets we shared in the night. Sing softly to me --only in my dreams. Sing softly for me, the song that emerges from the dancing beams.

He braced himself against the wall, lost once more to the lure of her voice. Sweet Prince. All of his doubts, worries and fears eased from his mind, all focus caught as she seemed to sing only for him, and the man lying prone across her bed faded from all reality. His consciousness caught on those two words, “Sweet prince,” which sealed his fate: the song was his. He knew it and he felt relief rush through his soul, somehow knowing without rationality, that he was finally safe, finally. Her voice called to him, luring him into the doorway. He reclined against the frame and casually kept a watchful eye over his woman. My woman? What the fucking hell?

She knelt on the bed next to Murphy’s prone form, her hair falling over her shoulder while her hands gently soothed each individual sore he had caused. She stopped humming long enough to chide the garda softly, “Now, I don’t have to tell you to go easy tonight, do I?”

“No, Orrs. I think I’ll be trying to apologize most of the night anyway,” he answered her woefully.

“You know …” Orra began thoughtfully as she pressed on with her work.

“I think I know how best to approach the subject.” The naked man chuckled then winced as Orra’s fingers found a particularly sore open spot. In the doorway, Snape graced the man’s discomfort with a sinister smile.

“Would it help if I called her?” Orra wondered idly.

“Maybe …” Murphy started. “I still need to make amends -- serious amends in her terms.”

“No doubt, Murph.” Orra graced the two men with a soft laugh. “Glad not to be in your predicament tonight.”

“Eh, it will all work out,” the garda said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Sure enough,” Orra said with a smile. “There, that’s the best I can do for now. I’ll bottle this up and you can take the extra with ya.”

“You’re too kind, Orrs.”

“I know.”

Too kind, indeed, Severus grumbled to himself.

“Get dressed, Murph,” teased Orra with a light slap on his calf.

Silently, Snape slipped away from his spying and quickly decided to start a fire in the grate, merely for something to occupy his time. Orra bustled from her bedroom back to the kitchen to find a container for the leftover poultice. She smiled warmly at Snape’s fire-starting endeavor and hollered over her shoulder as she moved, “Hungry, Severus?”

“Yes,” he called back, scowling at the wood as he stacked it.

“Supper next, then,” she informed him cheerily.

“Orra?” Murphy called out as he exited her bedroom as well.

“In here.”

“Thanks for -- well -- you know -- everything,” he mumbled, hanging his head and studying his hands.

“S’all right now. Here ya go. Tell Kellyn to go easy on you tonight or she’ll have to answer to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Here.” She handed him the small container. He took it gratefully and gracefully accepted a half-hearted punch in the arm from Orra. She shoved him out the door, latching it as he walked with a bit more of a spring in his step. Orra watched him, shaking her head at him, until he pulled away in his car.

At the sound of the car’s tires crunching on gravel, Snape smirked and aimed his wand at the stack of wood in Orra’s grate. “Incendio,” he hissed at the wood, a wry grin spreading across his face in satisfaction as the flames danced into life.

In the kitchen, Orra tossed together a light supper. Balancing everything quite nicely, she scuttled into the living area, setting plates on the table, catching Snape as he stood scowling into the flames. She stared curiously at his back for a few minutes before she interrupted his reverie.

“Severus? What do you prefer to drink?” she asked softly, hoping not to startle him too greatly.

“Drink?” he seemed confused, still stuck in the place his own morose thoughts had taken him once more.

“Well, I have some whiskey, and some fair wines, or soda?”

“Whiskey, neat,” he said, pouncing on her first offer.

“Good man.” She nodded in agreement as she disappeared around the corner for tumblers and the bottle. Strangely for him, her soft praise further warmed his once-cold heart, reinforcing his growing sense of sanctuary.

She poured a generous glass for the both of them, lifting hers as she settled onto her sofa. He glanced at the chair, a long reach to his plate. Looking at Orra, he finally noticed her patting the cushion next to her, indicating to sit near her. Pleased, he did just that, picking up his own tumbler and sipping the amber liquid with relish. Pausing to stare once more into the dancing flames, the myriad questions in his mind quieted, leaving him with a sense of peace. Maybe this place is magical.

“The circle is interesting,” he ventured.

“It is that,” she answered him with a chuckle. Neither party looked at the other, simply stared into the flames. The pictures on the mantelpiece caught Snape’s eye. As they dined in only slightly uncomfortable silence, he began to wonder about the man with her in all of them. In surrender to the rising warmth in the cottage, Snape absentmindedly unbuttoned the first few buttons of his jacket.

“Your husband?” he asked, motioning to the collection of photos.

“Yes,” she replied softly.

“Where is he?” Snape asked, giving in to his rising curiosity.

“I am a widow, Severus,” she informed him gently. Thoughtfully, she continued as he turned his head quickly to meet her eyes. “I somewhat suppose that is another reason Dumbledore sent you here.”

Orra stared at his profile for a minute or so, perplexed. “I somehow think he believed we would be sympathetic to each other,” she continued when he didn’t seem to understand. “We’d each understand what it is to lose someone so close.”

“Perhaps …” hedged Snape, not really understanding at all why Albus would think her grief over a spouse would be even remotely compatible to his grief over Lily.

Orra reached out to touch his arm to reassure and support him. Since you’ve only recently lost Albus as well. She thought but didn’t dare speak aloud to the man whose thoughts simmered in his brooding eyes.

When they had finished the meal and a large portion of whiskey, Orra made to clear their plates. Snape rose to his feet, taking the dishes from her.

“Allow me.”

“As you wish,” she acquiesced with a smile. Her expression grew grave and she pulled the dishes from his hands, settling them back on the table.

“Severus? What is this?” Her voiced trembled as her hands moved to his chest where the few inches of white shirt showed with a stain just above the first still fastened button. Her nimble fingers worked more buttons free. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her work revealed a large, dried, crimson stain over the white cotton.

“I did this,” she murmured, her voice full of regret. Her fingers finished their trek down the length of the black coat and restarted at his throat, working on his shirt now. He grabbed both her hands, stilling them, and gently tried to pry them from his body.

“I did this,” she repeated mournfully. “Let me see,” she begged of him.

He released her hands, dropping his to his sides. As she bared his chest, a single tear overflowed its boundaries and rolled down her cheek. A perfect knife-point wound stood in stark contrast to his pale skin. She cries for me?

“I will try the heal this,” she affirmed, tears falling more freely.

“I am fine, Orra. I’ve endured far worse than a knife-prick.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Snape peered down at his own chest, at the small knife wound perfectly positioned beneath his heart.

“Thank you,” he whispered for her sentiment, one of his hands closing over her smaller one as she splayed her fingers across his flesh, below the scabbed over wound.

“Thank me? For hurting you?” she asked in confusion.

“Thank you for caring,” he murmured as he raised her hand to his face to press his thin lips to her knuckles.

“Does it still hurt?” she wondered as pink heat climbed to her cheeks.

“Not at all,” he lied.

“Well, at the least, change your shirt and allow me to soak the stain?”

“As you wish,” he agreed. Dropping her hand, but not his intense gaze, he bent to pick up the dishes once more.

“I’ll take those then. You change,” she commanded.

“I will.” He yielded the dirtied plates to her and made his way to his new chambers. Inside, he studied the room once more, noting the comfortable-looking bed with its soft green and yellow covering. Briefly, his imagination flashed a vision of his red-haired hostess sleeping in that bed. Shaking his head to clear his mind’s eye, he moved to the bureau, looking for his sleepwear.

Ordinarily, he would have simply pulled on the loose silk loungers and slept bare-chested but he did not want to flaunt the knife mark in front of his hostess. He moved to the wardrobe and found one of his more worn, softer shirts and for once in his life, not buttoned completely to his throat.

They both returned to the sofa at almost the same time. Snape poured more whiskey for them both and offered Orra’s tumbler back to her. The fire’s embers glowed with a comforting red light. Eventually, the pair succumbed to its natural lure, and drifted off to doze lightly in its warmth.

~*~
Watery sunlight glimmered through the spring-new leaves of the trees surrounding the circle. Orra lay on her back, basking in the soft warmth the sun offered her.

“Beautiful,” Liam’s voice interrupted her daydreaming.

“Yes, beautiful day,” agreed Orra.

“Not the day -- you,” he clarified as he rolled onto his side, propping himself with his elbow, and played with her hair. She beamed up at him and he slowly lowered his head to claim her lips. Softly at first, then with rising passion, the couple spoke to each other without words. Orra rolled onto her side to press her body against his, asking for more. Orra’s eyes fluttered shut as she surrendered to the sensations of loving her husband. She shimmied out of her denims and jumper as did Liam, both of them laughing at themselves. Naked, they came together once more, bare skin pressed and writhing against bare skin. Liam rolled her over onto her back and pressed his cock between her legs as he dipped his head to kiss her once more.

“Well, that is enough of that!” Niamh exclaimed indignantly. With a swirl of her finger in the silvery water, she mixed the dreams of the two mortals in her vision. Smiling, she watched as both Snape and Orra shifted in their sleep, unaware of her meddling. Behind her, she heard a branch snap. Her eyes quickly darted around the garden but spied no one spying on her. Placing her tiny hands on the edge of the basin, she grinned as she watched the very physical reaction to her touch rise in one stoic male.

Orra reached one hand up to clasp the back of Liam’s neck, groaning as she wormed her fingers into his hair, only slightly off put that he seemed to have considerably more hair than she remembered. She tugged on his hair, earning a deliciously baritone groan in return. Eyes closed, she wriggled against him, begging for him to join them together. With relish, he eased his penis inside of her, savoring her welcoming warmth.

Unsatisfied with the slow approach, Orra bent her knees to press up against him, grinding, begging, pleading for faster, ever faster. Sweating, their bodies worked together, sliding and gliding against each other.

Different, thought Orra. Longer, wider. Must be your imagination, she surrendered finally.

As Orra’s orgasm ripped a throaty scream of pleasure from her throat, she opened her eyes to stare into the piercing blue eyes of her man, only to be shocked into awareness by glittering black eyes and lank hair falling like a curtain around both of their faces.

Orra awoke with a start, face flushed, breathing erratically. Snape’s half-strangled snore forced her focus towards him. With her eyes wide, she curled up and simply stared at him for a few moments, trying to shake off the very real sensations her dream had left her. Once more, Snape drew a long noisy breath and shifted in his slump, pulling a throw pillow over his lap. Her eyes followed the motion and she almost imagined that she could see the outlines of the longer, wider erection she had dreamed about.

As Snape shifted once more, obviously unsatisfied in his sleep, the soft blanket she had covered him with previously slipped to the floor. Quiet as a mouse, she eased to her feet and stepped to pick it up. Draping it over one arm, she gently lifted Snape’s feet and guided them to the couch so he could stretch out. He acquiesced in his sleep, murmuring incomprehensibly as she re-covered him. With a feather light touch, she brushed a finger over the angry red scar on his throat, so near his voice box. Stifling a shiver, she left him to sleep on the couch while she slipped wearily into her bed.
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Slanaighear Ofrail An Seangharra