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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost	By : Veresna Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 18697 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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
- 15
- 16
She was still clutching the jewelry box tightly against her as she walked through the doorway. Emerging from the darkness and smoke of the tavern, she found herself slightly stunned by the brightness and bustle of the outside world. It took her several minutes to recollect where she had parked the car, and when she finally located it she reluctantly placed the box onto the seat beside her, ignoring the urge to open it immediately.

The traffic was lighter than usual, and she before she knew it she was turning into the driveway with absolutely no memory of the drive home. She noticed with a smile that the twins were running around the yard playing one of their own unique games of tag as the baby-sitter watched from the front steps. Upon catching sight of her, they immediately swooped toward her, forgetting their game.

"Mummy!" cried Audrey excitedly. "Is that for us?" she asked, excitedly, pointing at the jewelry case.

"No dear," she answered, suddenly feeling slightly abashed. She usually stopped to bring them a small treat whenever she was in London.

"Can we have some biscuits and milk, Mummy?" asked Oliver, his skin reddened by the sun and the freckles standing out more clearly than usual.

"All right," she nodded, anxious to distract them before they could make too many inquiries into her parcel. With excited whoops, they spun around and raced up the steps.

"How were they?" she asked, turning her attention to the baby-sitter.

"Oh, they were little angels," replied Jessica with a laugh.

"Those two?"

The sitter laughed again. "Really," she assured her.

Rosalind paused to set the box down carefully upon the steps as she reached into her handbag. "Are my husband and Orlando still out?" she asked, as she passed the bills over to the girl.

"Oh, yes," she replied, smiling happily as she accepted the money. "They called about an hour ago and said they had found a new store and not to worry if they were gone for a while yet."

Rosalind nodded her head and found herself saying a prayer of thanks that she was going to have some time to herself before they returned. "Need a lift home then?" she asked.

"No, it's a gorgeous day, I'll walk-thanks!" chirped the girl, as she turned and strode away, tucking the bills into the pocket of her jeans.

Picking the jewelry box up, she entered the house and walked into the kitchen. Judging from the pool of spilled milk and trail of crumbs she found, the twins had already helped themselves to their snack. She continued on into the playroom, where they were lying on the floor, a large number of their toys scattered about the room. She leaned against the door frame and watched with interest as they negotiated the game.

"Let's play with the castle," suggested Audrey.

"All right," Oliver replied, "I'll be the knight and you be the princess."

"I'm tired of being the princess. I want to be the witch".

"You don't want to be a witch, they're ugly and evil."

"Mummy, that's not true, is it?"

Rosalind smiled and shook her head, "No, most witches are nice and look like everyone else," she assured her.

Audrey smiled in triumph while Oliver shrugged his shoulders and looked unconvinced.

"How would you know, Mummy?" he asked, defiantly.

"You'd be surprised," she replied dryly. "Play nicely now," she admonished. "I'll be in the office for a while."

They were already so engrossed in the game that she doubted they had heard her.

She moved on down to the small but well-lit room at the end of the hallway which served as the office for both herself and Curtis. She entered the room and closed the door behind her and then hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not it was necessary to lock it as well. On one hand, even the twins hardly ever disobeyed the rule that when the office door was closed, one had to knock and wait for permission before entering. But, on the other hand, since she had no idea what she might find when she opened the box, she thought it was best to err on the side of caution. Once the door had been securely locked, she walked slowly over to her desk.

She placed the box upon the top and spent several minutes moving her piles of forms, letters and notes to the side, her movements deliberately measured and unhurried, as if she wished to delay the opening of the case as long as possible. Although her initial curiosity had not faded, it had been tempered by an ever-increasing anxiety as to how painful it was going to be for her to face the tangible evidence of her relationship with Severus. She continued to stack and shuffle the papers for several minutes before finally sitting down in her chair and gingerly pulling the box onto the center of the desk. Taking in a deep breath, she placed her fingers upon the lid and opened it.

The first thing that she was aware of was the faint aroma of Chanel Number 5 wafting over her as the hinges reluctantly swung open. She smiled sadly as she sniffed at the delicate scent of the perfume, thinking about how long it had been since she had last worn it. She had never been able to bring herself to buy another bottle, feeling that it was somehow disloyal to Curtis to wear a scent that was closely associated in her mind with another man. And, after all, her husband always told her she smelled wonderful no matter what she was wearing.

She stared down into the box and studied the envelope that was perched upon the top of the other items, feeling the warm sting of tears in her eyes. The words that she had written to him had been imprinted upon her heart, so she felt no need to remove the sheets of paper and read what had been her first and last letter to him. She felt a slight bit of annoyance at the knowledge that another person had read the intimate document, but then she remembered the kindness and understanding of Remus' eyes. She must admit that if someone had to have discovered this letter, she was very grateful that it had been him and not one of Snape's many enemies. Reaching out her hand, she picked up the envelope and carefully laid it down upon the desk.

Directly underneath the letter was a cassette tape. Although there was no label upon it, she knew very well what it was and as she lifted it out of the box she could see that it was not rewound all the way. Apparently, he had listened to the song once and then taken the tape with him when he left the flat. She swallowed back her tears and placed the cassette beside the envelope.

The next item was something that she had rather expected to see-the bejeweled ribbons that had been one of his first gifts to her and which she had returned to him. Although the metal of the settings had darkened slightly and the color of the ribbons themselves seemed somehow faded, the jewels still sparkled brightly, catching the rays of the afternoon sun as she lifted them out of the case.

No, she thought sadly, her fingers running absentmindedly through the curls that were cut much too short now to be adorned with such extravagant fripperies. I couldn't bear to sell these, but neither could I ever imagine wearing them again.

One by one, she laid them down upon the desk next to the envelope and the tape and then turned her attention back to the box, frowning down into the darkness of the interior for several seconds before she realized what lay there. With a cry that was half joy and half sorrow she reached in to brush her fingers along the soft satin cloth of the black evening gloves.

Unlike the rest of her wardrobe that night, he had physically stripped those off of her hands, she remembered, tossing them over the side of the bed before using magic to remove the rest of her clothing. She had actually looked for them the next morning, getting down on her hands and knees to search, in vain, underneath the bed for them. So, he had taken them with him, it seemed.

The scent of the Chanel increased perceptibly as she retrieved the gloves from the box. She wondered if he had somehow magically preserved the perfume within the gloves, or if the fabric had simply absorbed the fragrance. As she held the gloves, she found herself puzzled by their weight and stiffness. After a moment, she realized that there were items hidden within them as well. She set down the left glove to the side and shook the right one cautiously, listening to the slight jangling sound of the objects within it. There was something faintly familiar about the sound, and just before the first pearl ornament had spilled out of the glove into her palm, she had known what it was.

Yes, she had left those for him as well.

The tears had started to flow down her cheeks by now, but she made no attempt to wipe them away as she put the glove down on the desk and carefully placed the ornaments on top of it. They glistened brilliantly against the black cloth, just as they had always stood out against the ebony of her hair.

She turned her attention to the other glove, still puzzled as to what long, thin object was hidden within it. Picking the glove up by the fingers, she began to shake it, and a moment later the mysterious object had fallen out, clattering loudly as if fell onto the desktop.

This time her involuntary exclamation was one of shock and confusion, and she continued to stare down at the thin baton of wood for a long time, as if she simply could not believe her eyes.

He had told her that he had given her wand to Malfoy when he had informed the sinister wizard of her 'death'. Had he lied? Or perhaps he had obtained another wand that he had given to Malfoy in its place? But, why? He had sternly informed her that she was to live as a Muggle, so why would he have kept the most obvious sign of her witchcraft?

With a shaking hand, she placed the now-empty glove down beside its mate and hesitantly picked up the wand. It was definitely hers-even after all these years without it there was something familiar about its feel. She sat, twirling it in her fingers for several minutes, before suddenly pointing it at the row of ribbons and murmuring a spell under her breath. Rather to her surprise, a beam of light instantly shot out and enveloped the strips and when it had faded away, they seemed to have recover most of their former vividness of color.

I always was good at cleansing charms she thought, as she set the wand down upon the gloves.

She glanced back into the box and saw that it was not yet empty. She drew out a long, flat envelope and studied it for a moment before reaching down to retrieve her letter opener. She drew the blade carefully through the paper and placed the opener down upon the desk again before working out the small, thick folder from the outer sheath. She stared in astonishment as she realized what it was, for it had been ages since she had last seen one of these.

No one had actually issued tickets for airlines anymore, and they hadn't done so for years. But this one had been purchased a long time ago, of course. A first-class, one-way ticket, departing from Heathrow and arriving at New Orleans Airport, after a connection through JFK.

"You require a new broomstick?" he inquired, much too innocently.

"No," she answered, irritably, "I require an airplane ticket."

And he had bought her one so that she could return to America.

With a jolt, she suddenly realized that the name on the ticket was 'Celia Graham', not "Rosalind Galatea." She blinked in surprise, and wondered when he had bought this for her. She paged through the papers stapled to the tickets, searching for and finally finding the date of purchase.

Dear Merlin, he had bought it in between his first two visits to her. Had he come to Knockturn Alley the night that he had rescued her intending to give her the ticket?

Her mouth twisted reluctantly into a smile. Well if he had, she had no doubt that he had meant to make her jump through some hoops before he gave it to her, having a bit of his own sadistic fun before rewarding her with his generosity. Perhaps he had intended to obliviate her again and leave the ticket for her to find this time instead of the money and the gifts.

Her smile disappeared as she contemplated the fact that he had instead walked into a room to find her raped, beaten and near death. Instead of sending her back to America, he had saved her life, altering her destiny forever.

She sat back in her chair, her fingers mechanically clutching at the ticket as she found herself lost in thought. If he had sent her back to America, she had no doubt that she would have been doomed to a life of misery. She would probably have tried, as she had in Britain, to support herself by other means before falling back into the wretchedness of prostitution. If she hadn't ended up being murdered by a client, she would still be plying her trade today, she supposed. A picture formed in her mind of herself, still complete with bleached blonde hair, her hardened and aged features unsuccessfully disguised beneath a thick layer of cosmetics. She shivered involuntarily for a moment before dragging her thoughts back to the present.

Bending forward, she placed the ticket back into its folder and then worked it back into the envelope. With a sigh, she went to place the envelope back into the box and then found, to her surprise, that the case was not quite empty. Wedged in the very back, she felt a piece of soft cloth. Lifting it out, she saw that it was a handkerchief and that there was something hidden within its folds. She unwound it slowly and then cradled the cloth in her lap as she stared down at its contents, a small pile of blood-speckled blonde hair. He had saved some of the strands that he had been forced to snip from her head the night that he had healed her, wrapping them up in one of the handkerchiefs that had once hidden her 'journal' in the drawer.

She raised her hand and drew the fingers through her hair once more even as her other hand played with the heap of light-colored curls. A part of her wanted to say that she was being overly romantic, thinking that he had kept her hair for sentimental reasons. Knowing Snape, he might have needed them for a potion, she reasoned. Then her eyes drifted back over the other items and she shook her head. No, she corrected herself, he could have tossed the locks of hair into a jar in his storage room, and she doubted that anyone would have had the nerve to question him about it. He had kept all of these things because he had felt the need to preserve the memory of her, and he had hidden them in a well-protected place where they might never have been discovered.

Making sure that all of the hair was safely secured within it, she slowly twisted the handkerchief back into a tight roll. She drew the soft fabric across her face, wiping off the remnants of her tears, and returned it to the box. She began to stack the rest of the items on top of it, hesitating for just a moment before pouring the pearl ornaments back into the glove. She did not return the wand to its former hiding place however, pausing and considering it for a moment before setting it down upon the desktop.

After placing the envelope which held her letter back on top of the other objects, she suddenly bent down and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk. She lifted up a large stack of papers and removed something that had been buried at the very bottom. Leaving the drawer open, she laid the thin booklet upon the surface of the desk and carefully smoothed out the creases from its weathered surface. It was the program from 'Madam Butterfly', and she slowly turned the pages, assuring herself that the ticket stubs were still safely tucked inside of it. Folding it in half, she placed it with the box as well, and then closed the lid.

She set the case inside of the drawer and arranged a large pile of papers over the top, concealing its surface. As she slammed the drawer shut, she suddenly became aware of the sound of laughter and conversation coming from the front of the house. Taking in a deep breath, she rose to her feet and headed to the doorway. Undoing the lock, she pulled the door open and made her way to the kitchen with a bright smile upon her face.

Curtis and Orlando were back from their shopping expedition. Her husband was putting away the last of the groceries while her son was trying to start washing and preparing the ingredients, his movements hampered by the fact that Audrey was hanging onto his leg and Oliver was pulling on his arm, clamoring for a piggyback ride.

"So, the mighty hunters are home?" she teased, stopping and giving a hug and kiss to Curtis. If her embrace was a bit tighter than usual, he did not seem to notice, returning the gesture with his own light kiss.

Drawing away from her, he drummed upon his chest with both hands before replying. "Big strong men," he said, pointing at himself and Orlando, "Get plenty meat for woman and children."

The twins laughed delightedly at his antics while Orlando took the opportunity of their temporary distraction to extract himself from their grasp and reach under the sink for the cutting board.

Rosalind contented herself with tilting her head to the side as she replied. "And you're willing to face the horror of the weekend mobs to do it. You must be brave. So, what exactly are we having?" she asked.

"Scallops," proclaimed Curtis proudly, as he returned his attention folding up the grocery bags. "They looked wonderful and Orlando said he's been wanting to make a special dish. What's it called again?" he called over to the boy.

"Coquilles St. Jacques," was the carefully enunciated reply, delivered in an impeccable French accent.

"Jaques? Jaques?" called out an excited voice.

At this, the whole group broke into laughter.

"No, Sweetie, not you," assured Rosalind as the parrot swooped down and perched upon her shoulder. The bird leaned over to give her an affectionate nudge on her chin.

"Mum, would you tell them to go play somewhere else?" Orlando demanded. The twins were on either side of him, jumping up and down as they tried to see what their tall sibling was doing.

"Leave your brother alone," she commanded, pointing with her finger towards the doorway.

"We want to help!" protested Audrey as Oliver stamped his feet.

"Off you go, the both of you, or there will be no dessert for you tonight," ordered Curtis. That threat seemed to motivate them, for they departed the room without another word.

"And you back to your perch," she told Jaques quietly. With a nod, the parrot flew back to his cage in the corner of the room. "Care for a glass of wine?" she asked, as her husband moved toward the sink and dumped the scallops into a large colander to rinse them off.

"Yes, please," he answered.

"But save some for the sauce," commanded Orlando, as she turned to open up the refrigerator door.

"Yes, sir," she replied, smiling to herself at his tone. She had begun to suspect that his voice was going to deepen into a rich baritone and that someday soon he would be able to use it as a formidable weapon. But if he were to go to Hogwarts, of course, that was not necessarily a good thing. She would have preferred that he not evince any habits or characteristics that would evoke memories of a certain black-haired, ill-tempered Potions Master.

She poured out the wine for herself and her husband and then stood, leaning back against the counter as they busied themselves with the meal. Glancing at her son, she tried to objectively assess just how much he resembled his father.

Everyone assumed, of course, that he had inherited the color of his hair from her. It was the main reason why she had continued to dye it-although she had to admit that she had become so accustomed to the shade that it would have seemed strange to return to her natural color. Of course by the same token, she had eventually become so accustomed to being called Rosalind that the name 'Celia' was beginning to seem like nothing more than a distant, half-forgotten nickname.

Returning her thoughts to Orlando, she examined his profile as he bent over the cutting board, his face a study in concentration as he began to slice the mushrooms. Although his nose was by no means small, it did not have Severus' definitive shape or distinctive breadth across the bridge. She wondered, briefly, it he instead resembled her own father in that regard, but her memory of the few pictures she had ever seen of him was hazy at best. He had definitely inherited her oval features rather than Snape's pronounced angularity of chin and cheekbone, and although she was not responsible for the color of his hair, it was thick and curly like hers, so far showing absolutely no tendency toward oiliness.

She had to admit that he had Snape's mouth. However, as she was certain she was one of the few who had ever seen Severus in repose and noted that his lips were full and expressive when not pinched into their habitual scowl, she was certain that no one else would ever notice it. In a similar vein, although Orlando had definitely inherited the color and shape of his eyes from his father, the openness and warmth with which he gazed out of them would make it difficult for anyone to associate it with Snape's cold, suspicious glare. Although she had to confess that she was rather worried that, despite the fact that his eyebrows were not often knit together in anger, he had already begun to develop a faint frown line between them. She supposed that there was a genetic element to it, but she continued to hope that Orlando's inherently trusting and generous nature would mean that the line would not be too firmly etched into his forehead for many years to come. Not that she didn't find it adorable, but it was another resemblance to Severus that she would prefer not be noticed.

Of course she had to admit, as she continued to sip her wine, that she had no idea at what point Severus had been transformed into such a querulous and suspicious man. He had certainly never offered her any details of his childhood, and if she could not quite picture him ever being as good-natured and loving as Orlando was, she could only suppose that it had taken years of betrayal and disappointment to produce a man a cynical as Snape had been.

Not that Orlando was a saint, however. He certainly had a temper, first evidenced when he was a toddler and seeming to give new meaning to the term 'The Terrible Twos'. Even now as an eleven-year-old, there were times when the smallest thing would set him off into a fit of rage, and in those moments it had never been difficult to see the father within the son. Like Severus, he strove so hard for perfection that he often found himself frustrated beyond the point of reason, and she had begun to suspect that the fury with which he lashed out at others was fueled by the inward irritation he felt at not being able to achieve his best. At any rate, if he his temper came from his father, he had also inherited an essentially loving and forgiving nature from his mother. The result was that his friends and family, while eager to avoid his rather violent outbursts, knew that there would be a sunny calm after the storm had passed. And, unlike Severus, he seemed incapable of holding a grudge, showing no inclination to record each and every insult that if had been his misfortune to receive.

Orlando had finished slicing the mushrooms and had begun to work on the scallions. She watched the quick, sure movements of his hands, the fingers long, pale and narrow, and in her mind's eye saw him mincing dandelion roots and skinning shrivelfigs with the same easy dexterity. Yes, he definitely had his father's hands, and she had no doubt that, if he were to spend any time working with potions that they would become covered with a wide variety of calluses and scars, much as Severus' were.

She abruptly became aware of the fact that his fingers had stilled in their work, and that Orlando was looking at her with a puzzled frown.

"Are you all right, Mum?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

She opened her mouth to reply that she was fine, but paused when she saw that Curtis was looking at her in a worried fashion as well.

"You're awfully quiet," he noted.

"Yes, I am," she admitted, putting down her wine glass and wondering where to begin. "Are you at a stopping point?" she asked, looking between the two of them.

Orlando nodded and used the edge of the knife to scrape the sliced scallions into a bowl as Curtis bent down to turn off the burner on the stove.

"Good," she replied. "Because there is something very important that I need to tell you both. Come with me, please," she said, leading the way to the office. The man and the boy followed her silently.

She gestured for Orlando to sit in the 'client's' seat that stood on the opposite side of the desk while Curtis wheeled his own chair into a position beside him. Taking in a very deep breath, she picked up the wand and handed it to Orlando. He looked perplexed, but grasped it in his hand without any hesitation.

"I have something to tell you that I should have told you a long time ago," she began, her voice low and steady. "It will explain a number of things, I guess-including why I keep that 'grubby old mirror' on my vanity," she said, directing the last words toward Curtis.

Her husband still looked quite concerned, but as she turned back to Orlando, she could see that her son was staring down at the wand with a great deal of interest. She could hear and feel the slight hum of magic in the air, and had no doubt that he was aware of it as well-even if he was not quite sure what it was.

Retrieving a paper clip from the drawer, she placed it upon the center of desk. Gesturing toward her son, she continued: "Point the wand at that and say 'Wingardium leviosa'," she directed.

"What on earth-" began Curtis.

But even as she raised her hand to silence him, she could hear Orlando repeating the words of the charm. As the last syllable resounded a faint glimmer of light, vaguely green in color, emerged from the end of the wand. It flickered slightly and changed, just for a moment, into a deep blue before suddenly coalescing into a focused and steady, bronze-colored ray. In response to this final burst of energy, the clip rose obediently into the air.

******

Most of the parents were stopping in for a drink and a bite to eat at 'The Three Broomsticks', but she had made her excuses and walked back down the street. As she approached the cemetery she couldn't help but notice how full it appeared to be. There had only been eleven other students being sorted with Orlando today. The meagerness of the class size was mirrored by the proliferation of tombstones in the yard, their brightness proclaiming that they were barely a decade old.

It took her the greater part of an hour to finally locate his grave, for there was no large, white marker as there were for so many others, merely a brass plate in the ground, untended and difficult to find in the thick, overgrown blanket of grass. She kneeled down and cleared an area around the stone, pulling out handfuls of the long green blades before taking her wand out of her pocket and performing a cleaning and polishing spell upon the metal. Putting her wand away, she traced the letters on the marker.

Severus Snape

Those two words were the only ones upon the marker. No date given for his birth or death, no attempt to either glorify or defile him, no identification of him as a Potions Master who had spent years teaching hundreds if not thousands of wizards and witches.

She cleared her throat and sat back on her heels, ignoring the dampness from the lawn that was beginning to seep through her cloak and robe.

"Well, where to begin?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You have a son and he started at Hogwarts today, and was sorted into Ravenclaw. I suppose you would have preferred Slytherin, but I mentioned to Remus that I had been praying, for your sake, that he wouldn't be put into Hufflepuff. He laughed and told me it would have been far worse for him to have been sorted into Gryffindor, as that would have set you whirling in your grave."

She paused for a moment and bent down, cocking her head to the side as if listening intently.

"I will take the absence of underground activity as a sign of your acquiescence in the matter," she noted, dryly.

She remained silent for a long time, glancing about her at the other stones, noting elaborate memorials to some who had fallen during the 'Glory of the Last Battle', and the lovely flowers appearing on many of the graves. Apparently there were some enchantments involved, for while she was there the faded and bedraggled bouquet that adorned a grave a few rows from where she sat suddenly disappeared, to be replaced within seconds with a fresh one.

When she continued, there were unshed tears in her eyes. "I hated you for a long time, you know. First, I hated you for leaving me, and then I hated you for dying. I hated you for not being there when Orlando was born and stared up at me with those beautiful black eyes. Though, of course, I suppose it's just as well," she allowed, a small grin appearing on her face. "I doubt that your glaring down at me and bellowing 'Silence!' would have been of much use in the delivery room. Curtis was a much better coach than you could ever have been. And he's been a wonderful father."

She stopped again and closed her eyes, ignoring the tears that were spilling down her cheeks. After several minutes, she opened her eyes again and shifted into a sitting position.

"I don't know what kind of father you would have been. Somehow, I don't see that we would ever have settled down into a rose-covered cottage. Or that Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts would have been comfortable having either a Squib or a Muggle accountant for a wife. Considering how you turned out, I can only guess that your own childhood was a nightmare. Whether you would have been a better father because of it or followed in the mistakes of your own parents, I guess we'll never know."

"No," she corrected herself, shaking her head. "I do know. I'm sure that you would have acted the same way towards Orlando as you always had done with me, continually blowing hot and cold. One minute, you would have been spoiling him with gifts and rewards and praising him to the skies, and the next you would have been bellowing at him in a rage, demanding that he do better. And he would have ended up like me-adoring you and fearing you at the same time, anxious to please you and frustrated at knowing that his best would never be quite good enough for you, that you would always be demanding more. You would have been a horrible father," she concluded, sadly. "But not because you didn't love him."

Bringing her knees up so that she could hug her arms around them, she shrugged her shoulders. "Of course, I have no doubt that you never intended to be a father in the first place and are rather wondering exactly how it happened." She chewed on her lip nervously for a moment. "Well, it turns out I hadn't been taking your contraception potion for months, I'd been pouring it down the sink. After all, I was taking birth control pills on the side." Chuckling softly, she patted the grass beside her. "Apparently you were right," she conceded. "It turns out Muggle pills didn't prove to be very effective at preventing a wizard's sperm from wriggling wherever they wanted to."

She drew in a breath and shrugged again. "At any rate, it seems that he was conceived on our last night together. After you left, I moped around for a while and then pulled myself together. I was so busy studying for the examination and setting up my own apartment and starting a new job that it took me quite a while to even realize that I might be pregnant. Then it took me a long time to decide to contact you. Partly because I was furious with you, of course. It's funny, but I found myself angrier that you hadn't searched for me than I was about the fact that you had tossed me out to begin with. Just another sign that ours was not the healthiest of relationships," she laughed.

She unclasped her fingers and ran her right hand nervously through her hair. "By the time that I decided that you did have a right to know about the baby and sent you the letter, it was too late," she said, her tone suddenly sad and serious. "You'd already been dead for weeks," she whispered.

There was another long silence, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the tall grass and the distant, vague sounds coming from the crowded village below. She allowed a few more tears to flow down her face now, but resolutely wiped them away with her sleeve.

"So," she said, finally, "I had another reason to hate you, and for the longest time I did."

Cupping her chin in her hands, she pursed her lips and continued. "I hated you for not being there when he said his first words and when he took his first steps and when he got his first tooth and when he lost his first tooth. Though, I suppose you might not have been too interested in him during the 'mewling and puking' stage. I guess his first curse and his first potion would have been of more interest to you."

She closed her eyes again for a moment. "I hate to admit it, but I suppose that was the real reason I never wanted him to come to Hogwarts. Oh, I didn't lie to Remus," she assured him, as she opened her eyes. "You know very well that I had been miserable here and I truly did not want any of my children ever feeling as stupid and useless as I had felt. And yes, I was deathly afraid that someone would figure out that you were his father." She shivered slightly. "That still frightens me, although I know Remus will do his best to protect him as will Headmistress McGonagall, if it comes to that. But, mostly-"

She paused again and stared out at the rows of tombstones for several seconds. Although the day had been sunny and warm, the temperature was falling rapidly and a slight mist was beginning to creep across the yard.

Without fully realizing what she was doing, she felt her fingers suddenly seize a handful of the tall grass. "Damn you, Severus," she hissed, pitching the blades towards his marker, her angry movements punctuating the bitterness of her words. "I didn't want to let you have that satisfaction of having a wizard for a son. Knowing how anxious you were to keep me hidden, I took great pleasure in picturing how absolutely mortifying it would be to you to have a son who was non-magical." She shook her head. "That was very petty and small of me," she admitted. "But then, I had the privilege of learning such things from a Master," she chided, affectionately.

Her expression grew suddenly serious. "I'm very glad that Remus contacted me and persuaded me to change my mind," she confessed. "I think Orlando is going to do extraordinarily well at Hogwarts," she said quietly. She laughed again. "You should have seen how thrilled he was when he bought his cauldron."

She shivered slightly, but this time she was sure it was merely due to the moist, cool air around her. "He's going to do well," she repeated. "There's been a little bit of merging between the Magic and the Muggle world, but not much. And I think," she added, slowly, "That he will choose this world. Your world." She nodded thoughtfully. "Yet, I'm not going to lose him. He will be a part of me wherever he is." She reached down and brushed her fingers against the marker again, guiltily wiping away the remnants of the sod that she had thrown in her anger. "Just as you are."

She slowly rose to her feet and then stood there, looking down at the marker as she reached into the pocket of her cloak.

"I loved you," she said quietly. "And I think you loved me as much as you could love anyone. I hope I helped make your last years of life bearable."

She drew a single red rose out of her pocket and placed it upon the marker. Wound around the stem there was a silver ribbon, adorned with emerald chips.

"You are not forgotten," she promised him. "I will return and I think that someday Orlando will be ready to come with me."

In the distance, she could hear the whistle of the Hogwarts Express and knew that she had to hurry if she was to make it to the departing train on time. As it was, she had barely stepped onto the train before the whistle blew again and the cars suddenly jerked forward.

She made her to an empty compartment and sat, staring out the window as the fog continued to roll in. A soft knock and the sound of the door opening finally jolted her from her reverie and she turned to see the smiling face of the elderly train attendant.

"Anything from the trolley, dear?"

"No, thanks," she responded, cheerfully.

"Oh, at least a nice cup of tea?" the woman urged, a note of concern in her voice.

Rosalind suddenly realized that the witch was staring at the large wet spots that her sojourn to the cemetery had left upon her cloak and robe.

"Yes, that does sound good," she admitted.

The attendant bustled about her for several minutes, not content until she had persuaded Rosalind to have a scone as well.

"Aye," she said, pouring out the tea and clucking her tongue, "With the weather turning so chilly, you need a bit of warmth and sustenance."

"Yes," she answered, as she gazed out of the window again. "It's a damp night," she observed, her eyes suddenly misty and unfocused.

She felt a hand upon her shoulder and turned to see the woman gazing at her worriedly.

"Oh, I'm all right," she assured her, reaching up to give the woman's hand an affectionate squeeze. "I'm just remembering the night that I met a very special man."

THE END

Author's Note: And thus ends a strange tale that began one day while I was sitting in a pizza parlor with my son, staring out into the rainy, foggy day (a usual occurrence in Seattle in January). Out of this grew the image of a rather desperate streetwalker, roaming the mist-filled streets of Wizarding London, only to run into Severus Snape. But not until they returned to her apartment would they discover that they had once been teacher and student. My editor encouraged me to build upon this slim framework.

One of the first changes was to rename the heroine, who I had tentatively christened "Lynette." Upon my editor's suggestion that I look to Shakespeare for inspiration (specifically the plays which Rickman had appeared in, which were numerous), she became Celia and "As You Like It" references were liberally sprinkled throughout the first chapters. Although my editor was aware that he had played the role of Jaques, the discovery of the fact that Rickman had written about the role and the play with incredible perspicacity and eloquence was an unexpected treat.

At one point, I did mean to leave the story with Celia being treated to a night of degradation and delights, the "Paradise Lost" referring to her unanticipated sexual fulfillment at the hands of Snape and the subsequent erasing of the event from her memory. Somehow the characters refused to let the story end there and, while debating story points with my editor, she suggested that an appearance by Luscious Lucius was called for. Our talks continued in this vein, finally deciding that his violent treatment of the poor unfortunate girl would evoke an unexpected reaction from Snape. It seemed logical that Severus, ever the nasty, contrary git, would never be able to admit how much the woman had come to mean to him, and that thought of setting her up in Muggle London, supposedly so that she could serve as his concubine, was an alluring concept.

Thus, it came to be that the 'Paradise Lost' would now refer to Snape, losing that oasis of affection and sexual gratification that he had come to depend upon. Jaques' last words from the play seemed quite appropriate here, and the image of Snape standing and looking at the empty flat, fully cognizant of what he had sacrificed, did seem to be a fitting, if disturbing ending.

As for the epilogue, it seemed to me to be the only way to draw this tale to a full close. I do fear that Severus will not be counted among the living when Book VII ends the Harry Potter saga, but I wanted his death to not be in vain. In my eyes, the fact that he has a son and woman who remembers him lovingly is more than he ever expected or even dared hope to have. On the other hand, Celia/Rosalind did not crawl into a hole when she learned of his death, but found the strength to carry on, building a loving family for herself and her son. Her time with Snape, although it indeed was not 'the healthiest relationship', gave her the strength and skills that she needed to forge a new life for herself.

Editor's Note: I should add that I have enjoyed working with Trisha during this story, and as was said, it took on a life of its own. I do not share her grim outlook for Severus Snape's future (although I firmly agree that he bears the mantle of dark hero, à la Heathcliff), and had suggested an alternative ending. She has been most amenable with the majority of my suggestions, rendering them exquisitely into her own words. This, however, she stood firmly on, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling would budge her perspective. I continued to edit the epilogue, which was extremely difficult to do, even though she gave me the option of demurring. It was never a choice, it is an honour to work with such a fine writer, and I hope to keep doing so.
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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost