JEWEL OF THE NILE
Chapter Fifty-Nine

Time passed.

Severus, upon his return to Hogwarts, was relieved to find his classroom and laboratory in relatively good working order. Apparently Albus had adhered to the syllabi and lesson plans he’d left - despite their usual hemming, hawing, and general levels of Gross Incompetence, the students nevertheless didn’t seem to be noticeably behind schedule.

He was plagued for a few weeks by half-finished packages of lemon sherbets, popping up in unexpected places when he opened drawers ... and, in possible corroboration with the aforementioned, all of his correcting quills felt distinctly, distressingly sticky to the touch, despite repeated Cleansing Charms.

Annoying, this, though hardly surprising. Under the circumstances, he figured he could live with it. And otherwise, life was back to normal - almost too quickly to suit him.

About Hermione, he tried to think as little as possible - and was assisted in this resolution by the alluring, multifaceted Sybil, as fascinating and kaleidoscopic a presence as ever. Still, she too seemed affected by her brief sojourn in Africa - or by something, at any rate. More than once, Severus had caught her toying with her wand, turning it over and over in her hands with a speculative, faraway look on her face, and lips that seemed to tremble on the brink of a forbidden declaration.

“Stress,” she’d explained once, catching the tail-end of his enquiring look, and then had taken his mind off the subject with a whispered suggestion so blatant and outré that he’d blushed the next day in class, just remembering it.

He hadn't questioned her since.

And then November was gone - just like that, so quickly that it seemed never to have existed - and in another heartbeat, Christmas trees were appearing in the Great Hall, the first glowing harbingers of the season. Eggnog replaced pumpkin juice at the Head Table, and the students' names began to fill the blanks on the Hogwarts Express signup sheet in scrawled columns of festive expectancy.

Hagrid strode into the Forbidden Forest one Saturday afternoon, axe in hand, and re-emerged just before dinnertime with holly wreaths the size of lorry tyres, one for each member of the faculty. Severus - inwardly rolling his eyes - accepted his with as good a grace as possible, and wrestled it down to the dungeons with gritted teeth.

A year ago, he'd have chopped it up for firewood - or worse. Now, he Reduced it slightly to fit on his classroom door, hung it with only a minimum of grimacing, and headed for his chambers to wash his hands.

Sybil was already in his sitting room - no wand in sight, for once - reading the Daily Prophet. She looked up as he came in, and he automatically took stock of Tonight's Look: red-gold hair in a swingy chin-length bob, pretty angular face with a faint golden sprinkle of freckles over the bridge of the nose, pale blue eyes, average build.

Nice, but nothing spectacular. He kept walking.

“Sap,” he said, and held up his sticky hands by way of explanation as he brushed past her into the kitchen. “Or dog drool. If it’s anything other than that, I don’t want to know.”

She laughed. “One of Hagrid’s wreaths?”

“Right in one.”

Soap wasn’t doing the job; impatient, Severus Charmed away the mess on his hands, then scrubbed irritably at a sticky spot that had transferred itself to his wand. “How’d you get out of taking one, anyway?” he called, and had to bite back a smile at her answer.

“The usual. Told him I was allergic.” Sybil laid aside the paper. “Severus?”

“Mm.” He poked his head around the corner into the sitting room. “What is it?”

“My - my face,” she said carefully, not looking at him. “Do you … ah, notice anything different about it tonight?”

That’s funny. With all the dozens upon dozens of Transfigurations she’s visited upon me in the last couple of months, she’s never once asked me that before.

Severus frowned, and studied her for a moment.

“No,” he said finally - then, at the crestfallen look on her face, dug around for a quick compliment; obviously, that had been the Wrong Answer. “The hair’s a pretty colour, though,” he said, tentatively. “Unusual. And the freckles are a nice touch, too - I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you do freckles before.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded warily. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

She was studying her hands - pretty hands, Severus noticed, with long elegant Elizabeth I fingers. “I have to tell you something,” she said, her voice so low as to be nearly inaudible. Severus frowned again.

“What is it?”

She flicked a look up at him through pale eyelashes that she hadn’t bothered to mascara. Odd, that; usually her Transfigurations came complete with cosmetic enhancements - something Severus appreciated, since he didn’t care for the taste of lipstick. “I gave Albus my notice today.”

“What?” That was news. Severus sank down beside her on the sofa. “You did what?”

“You heard me. I quit.” She waved one hand, airily, and would have managed to pull off the dismissive look if she hadn’t been biting her lip. “As of the January term, someone else is taking over my classes. May Merlin have pity on them.”

“Why?”

“Why should he have pity on them? Because my classes are no fun to teach, that’s why.”

“No,” Severus said, rolling his eyes ceilingward in exasperation. “And don't play at ignorance - you know very well what I’m asking. Why did you quit?”

Sybil closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. “A million reasons, but here are the main ones.” She held up one long pale finger. “One. I’m not cut out for this. Two. I can’t take the Fruit Bat anymore; if I have to look at her in the mirror until the end of spring term, I’ll kill myself. Three. I’m not a teacher -- well, not a good one, anyway -- and I never was. Time I stopped pretending.”

There was something different about her tonight, come to think of it, Severus mused. And unless he'd completely missed his guess, it was this: she looked scared.

Understandable, that; after all, she'd been a professor here for the better part of the last decade, and as adventurous as Hogwarts faculty meetings could be at times, they still weren't much preparation for the Real World. Particularly as she no longer wanted anything to do with teaching. What was harder to explain was the look in her eyes: raw, scraped-down, defenseless.

Sybil had more protective colouring at her disposal than any other person he'd ever known. So why the vulnerability?

“Ah," he said, at a loss for words. “Well, then. Ahem."

Blue eyes shot open and zeroed in on his dark ones. “Oh, and that’s not all," she said. "There’s more.”

“Really.” Severus shrugged, unsure of the appropriate response. Upon deliberation, a simple prompt seemed to be the safest option. “What’s the rest of it, then?”

“I’m not just quitting my job,” she said, that pale cerulean gaze uncertain, but determinedly locked onto his. “I’m quitting us, too.”

***

Well, she'd done it.

And if breaking up truly was hard to do, you certainly couldn't tell it by Severus Snape. That austere aristocrat's face hadn't given anything away as he'd kissed her cheek and murmured something understanding but cool.

In retrospect, Sybil supposed that she'd been hoping he'd make a bit more of a fuss ... but such was life. Too, she'd half-expected him to make more over her Real Face -- or at least to acknowledge it for what it was.

But that was silly - and, moreover, all her own fault. Spend fifteen years hiding your true colours, and you could hardly expect a ticker-tape parade when you finally dropped the camouflage.

Still, she couldn't help but think that -- under the circumstances -- she'd made the right decision. That should have made her feel victorious; instead, she just felt ... empty, as if the long-dreaded conversations she'd just had with Dumbledore and Snape had drained her remaining resolve.

Sighing, she wound her way through her crowded, incense-heavy classroom and muttered the password at the Concealed door in the corner. Never mind the melancholy, Sybil. You've got packing to do.

But it seemed that her packing was going to have to wait, just a little longer.

Harry Potter was sitting on her sofa.

***

"Hi," he said, and Sybil just stared at him for a moment, before capitulating and kicking off her shoes with a sigh.

"You've got a real problem, haven't you, Potter?" she said, more resigned than genuinely annoyed. "Ever look into a self-help group? Personally I think you might find Breakers and Enterers Anonymous to be just the ticket."

"I never break anything, though," he pointed out, seemingly unruffled by her fit of pique. "And my Thursday nights are already taken up with Quidditch practice, anyway. Guess I'm destined to go through life with my clandestine Cloak habit intact."

Sybil snorted.

"I shouldn't laugh," she said, and padded over to curl onto the opposite end of the sofa. "It just encourages you. Why are you here, anyway?"

"I heard you were leaving," Harry said, making her look up in surprise. "And I wanted to say good-bye."

"Who told you that?"

Harry shrugged. "You know that painting in Dumbledore's office? The one with the monk and the canary? Well, Fra Pietro was visiting the Fat Lady this afternoon when I went up to Gryffindor Tower to drop off my broomstick before dinner. Spilled the whole thing." He looked thoughtful. "Violet was there, too. And Sir Cadogan was only one painting over. I'd say your secret isn't much of a secret, anymore."

"Ah. Figures." Sybil rubbed one hand across her eyes. "Well, it's sweet of you to come say good-bye, then. I suppose."

In response, Harry shot her a shrewd look. "I haven't seen that face before,” he said slowly. “Is it new?"

"No," Sybil said shortly. He leaned closer.

"You aren't wearing any make-up."

She gave him the Evil Eye. "Oh, well spotted, Potter. Who do you think you are, anyway -- Yves Saint-Laurent?"

He ignored this. "Out walking around like this - no lipstick, even ... this is your own face, isn't it?" he said softly, his eyes sharpening as she flushed. "I'm right, aren't I? It's really you."

Sybil turned away. There was a hot blush riding the crest of her cheekbones, and she didn't like it, not one little bit. Embarrassment, in her experience, was something that happened to other women.

"And? What if it is?” she demanded, suddenly feeling vaguely weepy and more naked than she had in more than ten years. " What of it?"

He didn't reply. He was scooting toward her.

"Let me see," he said, and brought up one hand - calloused of palm and still slightly grimy under the nails - when she would have turned her head away. "You're crying," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Why are you crying, Sybil? It's a good face ... truly, it is."

She felt like a raw nerve, like the only tree left standing on a hill after a storm, beleaguered and lightning-scarred and very much alone. The mere touch of his hand, gentle and chaste as it was, made her tremble. She didn't want to look at him, but she couldn't seem to look away, either.

"Don't cry," he urged again, and slid a little closer to cup her face in both his hands. "Your eyes, Sybil ... I've never seen such sad eyes; they're like rainwater. I could drown in them."

"Don't ..." she whispered.

But she didn't really mean it.

His lips were warm and slightly wind-chapped, and they travelled the tracks of her tears almost reverently, as if taking a sacrament. Sybil shuddered, and closed her eyes, and surrendered; she might have summoned defenses against anything else, but not this unstudied, unselfish tenderness.

She'd been kissed a thousand times, but not like this, not like something precious that might shatter under rough handling. His lips fluttered over her closed eyelids, nuzzled their way down one tearstained cheek, and Sybil felt herself breaking apart on the inside, a fragile glacier in the glow of a persistent heat lamp.

For the first time in her life, the man in her arms wasn't kissing a disguise.

***

If it had lasted a hundred years, it would still have been over too soon. Even so, Sybil was the first one to pull away.

"Enough," she said shakily, and gave him a gentle push. "That's enough now, Harry."

He frowned, ready to argue. "But ..."

"No. No 'buts'." Her eyes were still damp, but she managed a smile. "You need to go back to Gryffindor Tower. I can't keep you any longer."

He hesitated for another moment, then gave her a slow nod - Harry Potter was a lot of things, Sybil thought, but dumb wasn’t one of them. “Write,” he said finally. “When you get to where you’re going.”

“I will.”

She walked him to the door, and didn’t protest when he hugged her. “Good luck,” he said, and then, on his way out, over his shoulder - “Keep your own face. It’s the best one yet.”

“Thanks,” she said, and stood watching after him, long after the wall had closed in front of her.

The packing could wait just one more minute.

***