Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Gwenevere zipped her jacket
half the way and walked briskly across the grounds towards the castle. It was light now and Slytherin had been on the Quidditch pitch for twenty minutes following the Gryffindor team. She entered through a westward wicket gate and jogged stone steps feeling invigorated and euphoric as the result of the workout and her lover. Her nerve endings hummed and her circulatory system operated at optimum capacity supporting elevated disposition and clear thinking.

She rounded the base of the last tower and paused in the secluded second floor corridor to unlock and open the door to her quarters. Boots was sitting in front of Snape’s door waiting to be let in. She entered and Boots sauntered in after realizing the error of his ways.

Upon entering, she had the peculiar impression that the living quarters belonged to someone else. The rooms had an unfamiliar, desolate scent reminiscent of the seasonal residence that her family held in Brighton when she was a child. The furniture looked like discarded wooden monuments of a past life abandoned, looming in contrast silhouette between shadow and light, which streamed in through cathedral windows. Not a thing was out of place; neither a book nor a glass that would suggest someone ever lived there at all. It was ethereally quiet, not a creak, or a ticking clock or a dripping faucet, or talk. She picked up her mail where it still lay on the table in the entranceway and placed it in the basket on the desk in the office.

The tea tray had been left recently by Dobby and contained tea for one; milk skimmed, no sugar, and whole-wheat toast dry. She brought the tray to the bedroom and set it on the immaculately made bed of white eiderdown covers, which hadn’t been slept in for four nights although it seemed a lifetime to Gwenevere.

She stripped and entered the bathroom, turning on taps and sipping tea as the tub filled. A chair beside the tub held her thick, white dressing gown, towels, parchment, ink and quill. She stepped into the hot water and acclimated to the warmth slowly, relaxing for a few minutes before applying the rich lather to her hair that drove Severus mad when they first met. She settled back down in the tub and closed her eyes to recall their first private meeting.

“Well hello Doctor Collins!” Said the transparently indignant wizard. Gwenevere flinched and turned her head towards the basins.

“Hello!” she said, obviously glad to see him there. Smiling.

“It’s been five days and I almost gave up on you ever returning here again. And to top it all off, Professor Snake has cast a brand new indelible no-ghost spell on his quarters as well as Slytherin house that no one here seems able to tamper with. How can you stand that dreary weather-bitten sanctimonious sot, lord of folded arms, king of sinister shadows? He is insufferable to say the very least!” Sir Nicholas crossed his arms and rolled his eyes in disgust.

“Oh, Sir Nicholas, now he is not insufferable, he’s just fond of a generous amount of privacy.” Gwenevere replied happily, smiling at Sir Nicholas her friend.

“Well I don’t see how he has any privacy lately, you have not been home for seven days in a row.” He informed her. He looked very annoyed.

“I apologize. I have missed you terribly Sir Nicholas, I really have. Please forgive me?” she asked. Sir Nicholas regarded her large dark eyes and expressive dark brows. Her hair streaked white and piled high on her head like a festive royal hairdo.

“Yes, of course I will. I…I’ve missed you dreadfully dear. They tell you not to form attachments with the living, yet I am afraid I’ve gone and done just that.” He admitted sheepishly.

“How are things with Lady Darlington?” she asked furtively, with a quirk of a brow and a flash of dimples she seldom revealed.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, splendid. I think she fancies me. Finally.” He said, smiling and adjusting his head. His eyes were wide with expression.

“That’s brilliant news. How could she not after all? I thought I saw her warming up to you a bit in the great hall.” She said.

“How are things with you and Professor Snake? Have you come to your senses yet and dumped him for naught?” He teased. “We will be married in ten days. That’s why it is imperative that you succeed in revealing the rules of the curse for us as soon as possible.” She said, absently brushing suds from the Juliet diamond.

“Speaking of the rules, I did find out rule number two just yesterday.” He said as he pulled a slip of paper out of his lace cuff.

“That is wonderful! Let’s hear it then, shall we? ” She said. Sir Nicholas cleared his voice and read from the small slip of semi- invisible parchment.

“A human being of impeccable character must witness ‘Loves first kiss’” He stated clearly and then looked quickly to see if she was smiling or not.

“Great work Sir Nicholas! All we need now are rules four and six, any chance of learning them by Friday? She asked.

“I will try dear, but the thirteenth is a day of festivities for us here. We find those who are especially superstitious and make it a day they will never forget!” He informed her with a smirk.

“Sounds like loads of fun, I know you will do your best.” She said.

“When will we chat again? I doubt that Professor Snake will allow me into his quarters after you’ve married him.” He sulked.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I will talk to him when the time is right.” She assured him.

“Very well dear, how could he ever deny you a thing? Good day, we’ll chat soon then.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Professor Parker lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. He had gone over and over the same impasse at least one hundred times since last evening and arrived at the very same conclusion each time. He had suffered irreparable loss, driven away any chance of ever becoming closer to Gwenevere and he had made a complete fool of himself in the process. His despair was disheartening.

Gwenevere obviously despised the sight of him and would probably file a formal complaint against him with the Headmaster. Professor Snape would surely call for an inquisition as to his actions in the owlry, no doubt embellished by his sinister imagination. The Headmaster would certainly side with Snape, he being a prominent master of the school.

Parker sighed. The best course of action at this point would be to go directly to the Headmaster just past breakfast, when newly elevated blood sugars restored most favorable dispositions. He would tell the Headmaster everything, write an apology letter to Gwenevere and resign from Hogwarts. He had no choice. He could not imagine seeing her daily, as she taught directly across the corridor, knowing she considered him a class idiot.

Parker stood up and indulged in a long stretch of his six foot two inch frame. He had a naturaly athletic build even though he ate all the wrong things and didn’t exercise regularly. More often than not, women found him attractive and he dated from time to time, yet had never been in love…until Gwenevere. No other woman had ever stirred the kind of reaction he felt when he was near her. In his opinion she was perfect for him; they were made for each other. He ran down the laundry list of common interests as he walked to the shower.

‘We both came from Excelsior’ He thought as he turned taps. 'We both teach in the economic financial field; same interests there’ he thought and climbed in. ‘we both wish to write the same book’ he thought, adjusting the temperature to hot. ‘I could really assist her in the writing of that book, I have taught finance for years and I know exactly what to do.’

He closed his eyes and leant against the cold tile, breathing in the steam as hot water droplets massaged his back like thousands of tiny fingertips. His mind wandered to his version of Gwenevere’s bedroom and he wondered what she was doing at the moment. He pictured her still asleep in her white negligee nestled in the scarlet bedclothes with her black cat, or was it gray? He couldn’t remember. Then he pictured her waking up in his bed to a kiss. A tender kiss placed upon her lips as his hand gently found the place where their baby was sure to kick next. She would look up at him and smile, place her hand upon his and guide it to the correct location where they could share the tiny tremor together.

He sighed as reality urged him to find the soap and move towards his goal, which was to get some work done in his classroom this morning before his appointment with Professor Dumbledore. He closed his eyes and lathered his hair. He imagined taking a shower with Gwenevere, her sleek slippery body pressing against his; serpentine like the time he caught her fall in the great hall. The thoughts were too painful, he dismissed them and quickly finished his task. He shut off taps and stepped out to grasp the towel.

He dried off and wrapped it around his waist, and then brushed his teeth and loosely arranged his blonde streaked hair with his fingertips. He considered if it was time for a trim, but thought not; the longer hair let him look younger then his forty years. He wondered when Gwenevere’s birthday was so that he could do an extensive astrological chart on her. He had done the maths and knew her approximate age, but she looked at least ten years younger. Hers was a timeless beauty, more exquisite with the passing years and manifest quiet intelligence behind her eyes.

And we are in flashback.

As the kennel was on the way to The Director’s home, Therese had decided to stop there first. Paul’s evenly spaced screeching had had nothing to do with it, she assured herself, though she imagined it could have something to do with wishing to spare Paul from being strangled by The Director. Therese could only imagine what he must be thinking—she loved her pet, and his incessant Chinese Water Torture wailing for the past forty minutes while in the close confines of her smallish car had set her teeth on edge. Though to his credit The Director, not noted for his appreciation of felines, had said nothing, and by nothing, she meant absolutely nothing, she could see his knuckles turning white edged as he gripped his knees. Yes, it was definitely time to offload the animals.

“Did you want to wait here?” Therese asked as she pulled up to the car park.

“Yes,” The Director ground out through clenched teeth.

“Right,” she said, almost lunging for the door she grabbed the pet carrier with Paul and had Tory follow. Moments later she returned, the large Alsatian still in tow.

“They could take the cat but not the dog,” Therese explained, stepping back into the car. “Eamon is not going to be pleased.”

The Director nodded, apparently still not trusting himself to speak.

“Don’t worry, you’re the next stop, sir,” Therese said encouragingly. She wasn’t quite sure what his half mumbled replay might have been, but she decided against asking him to repeat himself.

Therese pulled up to the kerb close to The Director’s home, noting that the color had started to return to his face. “When will you be leaving for Wales?” Therese asked.

“I called Savington, my driver, from the office yesterday, I expect his response would be on my answer phone right now.”

”Are you certain that he’ll be able to take you that far on such short notice?” Therese asked. “Time was the issue at the kennel.”

The Director looked thoughtful for a moment as he stepped out of the vehicle, then leant over the door. “It’s a good point,” he allowed, “why don’t you come in while I phone him?”

Savington was booked. The Director was one of his best and most important clients, but no matter how he attempted to juggle his schedule, he simply couldn’t work in a trip to Wales. Therese had therefore been relegated to clearing out the perishables from the fridge while The Director threw some clothing into a bag. It seemed that he was at loose ends, his significant other having been out of town for several days, and not expected back for several more, so it only made to head to Wales with Therese and Dev.

And so it was that Therese left her home with a cat, a dog, and a Director, and returned minus only the cat. “Not a word out of you,” The Director said immediately upon entering Dev and Therese’s flat.

“Me?” Eamon asked innocently, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eamon had roused them all at an unholy hour the next morning, Therese had managed a hot breakfast, and they’d gotten an early start. They’d taken Dev’s green BMW, as it was roomier than Therese’s Eclipse, and though she had offered to sit in the back with the dog, The Director wouldn’t hear of it. If he’d regretted his decision after the first hour of travel with a large dog panting in his ear, he gave no sign. Finally, at the first petrol stop, he and Therese exchanged places, and she overlooked The Director’s surreptitious attempt to remove any stray dog hairs lingering on his jacket.

It might have been smooth sailing from that point, had Therese not left the map on the boot of the car at the service station, or even remembered she’d done so before they were back on the road. Quite frankly she felt as if Eamon and The Director were a bit unkind about the matter, if the truth were known.

When the tyre went flat in the middle of nowhere, neither of the men felt the need to remind Therese that it had been her idea to ‘take a more scenic route’ and that if they’d been on the M1 as they should have been, not only would they have arrived an hour ago, but there would be all types of services available for them as stranded motorists.

The journey, which should have taken somewhat less than three hours given they’d taken pains to leave well in advance of the morning traffic, was into the fifth when all parties involved decided that a lunch break was in order. Who could have foreseen that one of Eamon’s biggest fans would not only live in a remote village in Wales, but also happen to be entering the same pub at the same time? Her shriek of recognition was ear splitting, and Therese had to admit, albeit somewhat disloyally, that for a big, strong man, Eamon’s flight instinct was finely honed. There was a brief, startled moment when both she and The Director wondered if they were to be left behind as Dev fled the premises.

“I thought it was only Brandon who inspired such devotion,” The Director commented, once safely ensconced in the passenger seat.

“Oh no,” Therese assured him, “I’ve seen the same thing happen to both Mistral and Valmont.”

Dev sighed, and at then next pub they came to sent Therese in for take away.

The rest of the journey had gone rather smoothly, all things considered, and it was with a combined sigh of relief that they turned into the long drive preceding Mistral Manor. Dev parked the car to one side of the drive. It was with great relief that the human and canine occupants removed themselves from the vehicle. “I hope that Mistral doesn’t mind we’ve brought Tory,” Therese commented as they climbed the steps to the main entrance.

“It’s not as if she’ll be panting in his ear for her entire stay,” The Director responded.

Therese rolled her eyes at the comment, and reached for the stout looking cord alongside the huge oak door. “A real bell pull,” she noted, giving it a long tug. There was a short wait, and the door slowly moved inward, a bemused looking Mistral greeting the weary travelers. Stepping aside, he waved them in. “I’m glad you could come,” he said simply.

Eamon and The Director extended hands, and long, firm handshakes were exchanged. When he extended his arm in a similar gesture toward Therese, she pushed his hand aside, and stepped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mistral,” she said softly, and felt his response not only in the quiet, “Thank you,” but also in the tightening of his grip as he returned the embrace.

“Thank you all,” he said, stepping back slightly, “we can bring in your things in a bit, for now we seem to have gathered in the next room, if you’ll follow me?”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Gwenevere awakened to the perfect balance of warmth and comfort and was surprised to find that she was actually sleeping on the opposite side of the bed. She had fallen asleep in Severus’ arms last night and apparently neither of them had moved a muscle since then. When he knew that she was awake, he embraced her tighter as she kissed his neck and melded her body closer into him.

She lay there still and quiet for several moments as the real world of responsibility slowly edged out the floating carefree bliss of lovers’ slumber. Her eyes were open now and she lifted her head enough to see his face in the dim first light of day. He was deep in thought, yet appeared contented and rested. As she looked into his eyes she asked the question. ‘Are you all right?’ It was not a superficial greeting offered out of mere habit, but a concerned query, which lead the search for the true answer.

He answered her with a staid half smile and took her left hand in his. In one corporeal motion, her Juliet diamond was placed on the nightstand and he was looking down at her and then they were kissing. She relaxed as her hands traveled along his back and she savored the sensation of his full weight upon her. He kissed her deeply, almost desperately, and allowed his mind to bask in the delight of her touch, thrusting the bounds of the curse another measure further out.

At ten minutes after five, she slipped out of bed, replaced her engagement ring and entered the bathroom to dress for running. As she finished brushing her teeth, Snape entered through the open door and twisted taps in his shower. She kissed him a quick goodbye amongst the steam on her way out just before he stepped in.

**************************************

Across the way in London, a British coroner; a wizard, prepared a handwritten letter addressed to Professor Severus Snape in care of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry requesting the Master’s expertise in a baffling case of apparent suicide at the hands of a crudely made mortiserum. Curious incidentals surrounded the case in question.

The family estate had belonged to Bernard Stephan Burgess III and contained large amounts of gold and other valuable assets including a castle located very near Hogwarts. The sole inheritrix named in the will was undisclosed until further investigations were complete. Bernard Stephan Burgess III, age forty, was the only child of the great apothecary magnate and philanthropist Doctor Bernard Stephan Burgess II, and was the last of the family line having failed to marry and produce an heir to carry on the family name and sizable fortune.

Mistral looked about the room. It was a picture the like of which this house hadn’t seen for a very long time. In addition to proving his worth as a toter of luggage, he had compounded his usefulness by becoming a mover of furniture. He’d had help of course. That was part of the wonder of it all.

The old library was of a good size, the fireplace a large one, and with the addition of a few more chairs and a love seat rearranged it was also quite accommodating. It now held, in addition to its fine collection of books, a finer collection of people. They were listening to music as there currently was no television to offer. There had been a set but it had broken some time ago and had never been replaced. There was one up in Sybill and John’s rooms and he believed that was where they had gone upon their return earlier this evening. This was better. Cindie and Mary Anne had chosen the programme and arranged the CDs. It was a lovely if eclectic mix of tunes. He’d been enjoying guessing which of them had selected the various tracks and had been surprised to find himself wrong more than once. It seemed that Cindie was beginning to appreciate opera (at least arias that featured a singer of which she’d developed a fondness) and that Mary Anne’s taste in music was rather more …varied than he would have expected. When a song came on extolling the virtues of a particularly vile sort of tinned meat, he’d also learnt that Sandy had contributed to the entertainment with a CD she’d had in the rental car in which she and Dane had arrived.

It was a vigil of sorts made nearly bearable by the company of friends. Occasionally someone would say something and the laughter would burst forth spontaneous and free. Then the reason for the gathering would reassert itself and the mood would somber as each reflected on their own thoughts. It wasn’t awkward when this happened. They all knew and understood what was at play. It was a consciousness rather than a self consciousness.

Brandon and Mary Anne had claimed the love seat and sat together sipping the hot chocolate he’d prepared for them all. Mary Anne had proclaimed it nearly as good as hers which was, Mistral supposed, the best he could hope for. Dane was sprawled in a large easy chair and Sandy, delightfully indulging in what she proclaimed to be comfort, lay stretched out on her back on the floor, toes facing the heat of the fire. At least the rug was a good thick one. He didn’t want anyone to put their back out on his watch.

Mistral looked now to the room’s other occupant at the other end of the sofa. The current selection was a pop tune by that artist she’d liked at the Downtime. The song had a heavy beat and silly lyrics when sung by a man and he saw her smile and lip sync a phrase. Then she looked over at him as if she’d felt his gaze on her. He smiled. She seemed to make the connexion and he saw a faint colour rise in her cheeks. His smile broadened; she wasn’t that close to the fire. She flashed him a ‘don’t you dare say a thing’ look and if they had been alone and things were different he would have laughed out loud. As it was he merely shrugged but didn’t even try to look innocent. A knock came at the door and there followed a sort of rasping sound. Some intrepid soul had discovered the bell pull.

Mistral went to answer the door.

Tuesday: Have narrowed my list of possible mates for mid-life grand passion. Focus. Must have focus. Keanu? Too young. Harrison? I've read he has a bad back. Jackie? Maybe, but he would probably expect athletic sex. I think I would be impressed yet intimidated by someone who could strip, then bounce off the wall and land on the bed in a handstand. No, upon consideration, my destiny is clear. He's tall and lean, moody and complicated, with a baritone that melts the butter on my kitchen table: Alan Rickman.
I knew from the moment I saw him on-screen that we were soul-mates, so we'll have that going for us. I can tell by his haircut, he has the cool brilliance of Hans Gruber in "Die Hard." I'm positive someone who added interest to "Robin Hood: Prince of Boring" could liven up dull evenings. As for his recent performance as Professor Snape in "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," well, that does it. If he can be sexy made-up as Ichabod Crane's long-lost cousin, just imagine what he's like nekkid. Lord knows, I have.

Wednesday: Depressed. Searched the internet, assuming Alan would have a web site, waiting for me to email him. He does not. He does, however, have a wife. I learned that from the Alan Rickman fan sites, of which, there are far too many. I checked their counters. According to my calculations, at least 125,000 adult females spend really serious amounts of time each day discussing him. They know his favorite food and star sign. They know his inseam measurement. They have made wallpapers for their desktop from his publicity shots, so they can stare at his face between chats. That's so sick. I keep his picture in my documents file, as any sane person would

Friday: Over breakfast, Steve gently suggested my plan to trample all rivals with elephant herds was unrealistic, probably immoral, and definitely illegal. I hate it when he's right. Decided to take direct approach and just call my unknowing-but-fated lover. Searched web for about ten hours, finally found his barber's brother had posted Alan's phone number on his links page. When we speak, I must warn him to change it. Any kook could get hold of it and bother him.

Saturday: Turned out the Alan Rickman with a phone number listed on the internet was an accountant in Surrey. He was nice and we chatted for awhile about the time difference between America and Britain. If he and the family are ever in town, they promised to stop by. He congratulated me on my determination. So far, only 536 women have called his house looking for the actor by the same name. It's clear, most never come this far on the quest. I feel that's a good omen. He's sending me a London phone book; further action will have to wait till it arrives.

Wednesday: Began ancillary strategies. Since war elephants are bad form, decided to distract other Rickman fans, and possibly Mrs. Rickman, with another man. Started Brad Pitt fan site, heavily advertised to those hanging about the Rickman forums. Included photo of Brad in a tux from "Meet Joe Black." Feel sorry for his wife, Jennifer Aniston, but all's fair in love and war. I think she'll rebound if Brad is lured away by the fresh onslaught of adoration. I worry that Alan will be concerned when his fans abandon him but once we're together, I will console him. Often.

Friday: Diversionary tactic not working as planned. Number of visitors to new Brad Pitt site going up but number of Rickman fans not decreasing at his sites. Apparently, the hussies are lusting after both celebrities at once. Some people have no sense of decorum. The London phone book is here at last. Sent Mr. Rickman-the-Accountant-In-Surrey a nice fruit basket as a thank you, with best wishes for the wife and kids. The London phone book is here at last. Sent Mr. Rickman-the-Accountant-In-Surrey a nice fruit basket as a thank you, with best wishes for the wife and kids.

Wednesday: None of the twenty-two Alan Rickmans in the London phone book were the actor. When asked, I told Steve I was making cold calls all day, trolling for new business. Suffered twinge of guilt about lying but listened to Alan's recording of "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" until the feeling went away.

Monday: After much thought, I have decided only a face-to-face meeting is going to have the desired result, so I've been getting a distressing amount of exercise, trimming up for a trip to London. It occurred to me that a man who winds up in Gentlemen's Quarterly might not find middle-aged pudge adorable on a woman. Steve says I look fine just the way I am, but what does he know?

Friday: The phone bill arrived. Steve was not amused but once I pointed out that I will be designing web sites for several Alan Rickman's in the Greater London Area as a result of the calls, he was somewhat mollified. True, it makes for an odd resumé, but I guess it doesn't hurt to specialize. I asked Steve if my leaving him for a handsome actor bothered him at all. He said, "No, it's good you have a hobby." He is not taking me seriously, I can tell.

Tuesday: Cannot move. Every muscle hurts. To hell with exercise. Alan spends his working day surrounded by beautiful actresses; my gritty authenticity is bound to make for a refreshing change. Got the Rickmans' home address from his second-cousin's best-friend's daughter, who was bribable for a pathetically small sum. Mailed Mrs. Rickman photos of Brad Pitt and the fan site address with further illustrations to tempt her. I have my plane ticket. It's all coming together.

Thursday: Severe difficulties. I cannot waylay Alan at his home, because now it wouldn't be sporting. His wife wrote back, thanked me for the pictures, and said Brad's nice in person, too. Chatted a bit about the weather and sent me an 8x10 glossy of Alan. Darnit. You can't woo someone's husband at her home after you've exchanged friendly correspondence; it's uncivilized. She's shrewd, I'll give her that. Discouraged. Alan Rickman turns out to be elusive, and now there are 135,000 women regularly visiting his fan sites, because he's still picking up momentum from the Harry Potter people. It is an unfair life, and that's all there is to it. Steve says I should look at the good things I've got. What a geek.

Friday: Received form letter from Brad Pitt, thanking me for my efforts on his fan site. It was addressed to Syci Kirpatic. Enclosed was a picture of Jennifer and him, both smiling and perfect from head to toe. I held it up next to myself in the mirror. I did not look like I was a member of the same species. Went to zoo. Felt better after watching the monkeys for a long, long time. Steve said I should buck up, and he wouldn't trade me for the world. Sometimes he's all right.

Chapter 19, in which Snape comes to a decision about letting Ella back into his life.

“He had placed his trust in her once, wholeheartedly and contrary to everything that he was, and she had trampled him underfoot. He would not make that mistake again. He had to make it clear to her that their relationship was dead and buried and should remain undisturbed. He had to shun her and he had to turn his back on his own child.

If she fled from his cruelty, unwilling and unable to weather the storm of his rejection, then he would be vindicated… On the other hand, if she stood her ground and refused to be cowed by whatever spleen he chose to vent at her, if she fought to regain his trust and his love, then he might be able one day to allow himself to trust her. It was self preservation, no more and no less, for if he allowed her back into his life too easily then she would be his destruction.”

All of my stories can be found on the following sites; www.fanfiction.net/~rickfan37

http://www.astronomytower.org/authorLinks/Rickfan37/

http://adultfan.nexcess.net/aff/authors.php?no=4458

http://sycophanthex.lordandladysnape.com/viewuser.php?uid=25

Take your pick! Thanks.

~RF~

What? she's not Irish? Hold a wake, anyway!;)

A merry and safe holiday to all in The Realm. "Happy Fancies to all, and to all a good Flight!"

"Yes, that's just fine." George replied, his mind only half-aware of his answer. "You're doing a good job."

"I'm so glad you like it." She smiled happily as she moved her hand in the approved manner. "I do so want to please you."

"Well, you'd please me more if you'd keep quiet. I'm trying to read this script." He finally looked at her, frowning. "And you missed a spot. Right there." He pointed.

"Oh, sorry!" Across the room, Mia grimaced as she turned the boot she was polishing over and applied more blacking to the offending spot. "I'll do better."

"See that you do." George eyed her coldly, then returned to the pages in front of him. Of course she was annoyed. This wasn't at all the sort of "personal service" she'd thought she'd be providing when he'd brought her to his trailer. He fought back a smile as he remembered the look on her face when he'd indicated the boots, the rags and the blacking. For a moment he thought she was going to slap his face and walk out in a huff, but she'd swallowed hard, announced that she was delighted to be entrusted with the task and set to work immediately. Whatever it was she wanted, she must want it pretty bad.

He flipped a page over to make it look as if he really was reading the script. His thoughts really weren't settling down to work. Partly it was a holdover from his illness; he'd spent most of the week sleeping, drinking chicken broth and reading classic detective novels. And partly because he was confronting an unpleasant realization.

He'd made a prize ass of himself at the Savoy a month ago when he'd broken up with Joya.

The acknowledgement was still only a private one. He would have suffered the tortures of the Inquisition before he'd admit it in public. But during the part of the week when he'd not been sleeping, noshing or reading, he'd been thinking and he'd forced himself to face the facts. Joya's mention of a baby had touched off a feeling of total panic.

Of course it wasn't her fault. He turned another page. Women were like that. What did they call it? Ah, yes, her "biological clock was ticking". That was it. Silly expression. But women weren't always as rational as men and he should have taken the time to consider that before reacting so emphatically. Not emotionally, he told himself, he hadn't been emotional, he'd been emphatic. But the result was the same. She'd sent back his clothing with a servant who'd collected hers in turn.

Well, not all of hers, actually. George smiled to himself, then checked to see if Mia noticed. Good, she was still polishing boots. No, he'd hung onto one item of clothing. That wonderful silk slip Joya liked to wear underneath a coatdress "because there won't be any lines", whatever that meant. How many times had he watched her get ready for a dinner party, walking around the bedroom or into the bathroom in that ivory-coloured slip, touching up her makeup, fluffing her hair, adjusting her stockings before putting on whatever dress she'd selected? No other item of clothing affected him like that slip; it was a reminder of how confident she felt with her body, how unaffected and natural she was in every way. She had lingerie and underthings that were more revealing but if there had been a fire in the apartment and he could save only one thing apart from Joya, he'd brave the flames of hell itself for that slip.

A loud bang jerked his attention away from his thoughts. Mia looked at him apologetically as she retrieved the boot from the floor. He scowled at her, remembered to turn another page of the script and turned his back on her.

Of course now that he knew he'd made a mistake he'd have to rectify it. He had to get Joya back. It shouldn't be too difficult. She would be missing him as much as he missed her. They'd had a special bond that few people shared. A feeling of warmth moved slowly up his body. He shifted in his chair, trying to get more comfortable. What they had together was incredible. He ached with the loss every hour. Surely she did too?

George leaned back and stared at the wall. Of course, there were practical considerations as well. If she wanted a child, then she needed him. And while the thought of making the sort of commitment that fatherhood implied made him shudder - he paused for the repugnant feeling to come over him -

But it didn't.

He froze with shock. No. It couldn't be. He called up an image of a pregnant Joya on his arm, of the two of them walking in a park with an infant in a pram, of him holding a crying baby. He closed his eyes. Surely he would feel the revulsion now.

But he didn't.

George set his hands flat on the table and breathed deeply. The idea of fatherhood was not repugnant. The concept of a permanent commitment to Joya was not abhorrent. The theory of marriage - the actual legal ceremony - was not loathsome.

Oh - Dear - God. Then that must mean that he was - that he had fallen - that he lov-

"Mr. Nott? Are you all right?" It was Mia, eyeing him nervously from across the room.

George whipped around in his chair, furious at the interruption. He snarled, prepared to give her a good berating when the sound of voices outside the trailer stopped him. He stared at the door.

One of the voices belonged to the Director. The other speaker was - Joya.

He surged to his feet. Mia squeaked in alarm and scrambled out of his path. Two strides took him to the door and he yanked it open so hard the hinges screeched in protest. At the end of the alley, the Director and Joya were deep in conversation.

But they weren't alone. An incredibly handsome, almost pretty young man was there too and Joya's arm was linked with his. She gestured at the Director and then placed her hand on the young man's chest. Over the sound of his thudding heart, George strained to catch her words.

"And I'd like to introduce you to Scott, a wonderful person that I met just two weeks ago who's very smart and very hard-working and who's going to give me a child."

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

After a light meal, Gwenevere indulged in some Belgian chocolate, which she enjoyed with a sweet dessert wine, famous for its compatibility with chocolate. Snape set his cognac and wand on the table and loosened his collar and cuffs. Outside it stormed so he lighted a fire in the fireplace and the two of them settled together on the sofa. The flickering firelight intermingled with soft lamplight to create a romantic atmosphere in the large room.

Snape picked up a small book of poetry that was sitting beside him on the table. He had seen Gwenevere reading it recently and it was book- marked to a page containing the work of Thomas Stearns Eliot.

“I would love to listen whilst you read that one.” She said hopefully.

“If you wish, although it’s rather a long one isn’t it?” He commented absently as he turned the page.

“I could listen to you read poetry infinitely my love—unless you would prefer not as you’ve only just finished lecturing for two hours.” She said as she realized the slight of her request.

“No, its fine. I will speak quietly…like this.” He brought her round to sit closer to him and rest her head on his chest: his sound close to her ear as he read 'The Hollow Men' for her. Her hands occasionally caressed his long thighs as she settled between them. She closed her eyes and listened intently as he enunciated each verse flawlessly. Her complex mind enveloped each and every syllable as understanding soared unabated in seemingly infinite vision and imagination.

His bass vibrated in his chest and soothed her as deepest thought dallied on Dante’s Inferno and the essence of existentialism. Her lover truly sated her mind, body and sprit to blissful completion and in equivalent significance: Supreme equilibrium. She was like no other lover and could be adequately contented with no other method apart from the delicate multifarious balance that she required. Snape well understood the quintessential Gwenevere and it pleased him to please her. His rich mind was also rewarded in the process.

“…At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss…I like that verse.” He purred as he kissed her ear.

“You never tremble darling.” She sighed, caressing him tighter. He read on for her, words like warm, rich chocolate as the verses fell away one by one like the rose petals.

“…Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow.”
As he finished the piece, he took her hand in his and kissed each of her fingers, gently transitioning her mind from cerebral metaphysical reason to cerebral physical sensual.
“…Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent…” Gwenevere sighed quietly. Her head rested on his chest as he continued the irresistible courtship of his lifetime mate with silken assurance and adeptness. She breathed him in and longed for closeness and shadow.
Falls the shadow.” Snape gently lifted her jaw and kissed her slowly.
“Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine.” He purred.
“There fell thy shadow…” He whispered to her before finishing the poem. They kissed again and the shadow indeed fell betwixt their lips as they met in familiar reunion.
“This is the way the world ends…
Not with a bang but with a whisper.” He whispered.

The thought of the curse flickered through both their minds yet the kiss they shared quickly blocked out all except the moment when man and woman desire to become one, an exquisite ache as old as evolution and more powerful than nature; the human condition to desire. To want more. It is a desire to reassure us, and to feel the fundamental nature of being alive.

‘Why does the lover want to be loved? He’s the perfect lover!’ She mussed silently.

He tamed her wanton touch, forward by nature, enemy to persistence and in doing so heightened their craving; the irresistible desire for the unobtanium. The alluring pull of his thoughtful focused attendance towards her was matched only by the spontaneous multiplicity he brought into being each time they made love. She deeply sensed that today, he had given tonight, much more than ephemeral consideration.

As he kissed her throat and slowly opened her collar, she recommended they adjourn to the bedchambers at once. The passions of the day together with deeply powerful reflection had cast a spell on Gwenevere, moving her to warm, flushed places in the heart. How languorous a lover was he to entice each of her senses so deliberately and by measured degree until she need beseech him for more? He sent regrets in sensual tones that defied her endurance and he encouraged her unyielding faith in his judgment.

She had never before lamented a decision to trust him so she resolved to relax in his hands and follow his leads as if engaged in a sultry sensuous tango. She knew too well how fruitless an endeavor to rush him if his mind was set to savor their precious time together. He was delicate in his devotions, sending shudders of anticipation all through her feverish foundation. She was not an inactive participant, however, he regulated her participation to that which served his method. He proceeded to take her slowly through various levels and intensities of reciprocal indulgence, never allowing them to move too quickly through the process. They had all night.

When he gauged that time was of the essence, he reached for his wand and cast a feather-light spell upon her. Gwenevere was amazed to discover herself drifting upward with him as he stood. He firmly embraced her as he walked them to the bedchambers in order to proceed with their lovemaking in privacy assured surroundings. Snape kissed her deeply as he guided the zipper at the back of her dress, letting it fall round her bare feet, which hovered inches from the floor.

Weightlessness kindled her delight and promised interesting possibilities. Gwenevere slowly opened his white shirt and kissed him as each button reveled more of him for her. When the shirt fell to the floor, it was his turn to peel her out of the black lace slip. He lifted it in stages, kissing her hot flesh at each phase as she had done with him. They experienced identical sensations, as together their minds were slowly being flooded with anticipation and need. Each article of clothing eventually made its way to the floor and the feather-light spell remained in tact as at last, they slipped between the crisp, cool sheets.

His careful, experienced touch soothed and excited her mind, and his kiss disseminated upon her flesh and intoxicated her senses. He was as comfortable with her body as he was with her mind, and soon would be with her sprit. If living forever could add meaning to life, then dieing tomorrow could add it more. His agonizing awareness of transitory time drove patience to new levels, savoring each lingering kiss, each approving sigh, and each sensual, silky utterance as if it were his last; the plight of the condemned man, of no tomorrows.

Their complete, open trust was the archetype of closeness. Theirs was a eternal bond held secure by the wrought iron chains of conviction that allowed them to suspend all traces of doubt; in essence pure epoché. Snape’s goal was far from completion as he proceeded to scrupulously tantalize Gwenevere to the very boundary of everyday sanity and over the edge into a blissful abyss completely beyond any of her control. They experienced the double-edged sward of desire and release, emotion and response, and life’s ultimate reward as time dimmed each day toward darkness and sequestration.

The voice buzzed through the receiver. "Yes."

"Will it be all right if we show up?"

"Well, Mac said that John said that Vicky said that Dev said we were to come if we could."

"Well, if Dev said it's all right, then, I suppose..."

"You suppose?"

"Yes, Nikki, I will, then."

"Thanks, Barbara, you're a peach. Don't forget to pick Phil up for us." And she was gone.

"WHAT!?!

She spent the next hour calling Nikki back but only got a busy signal.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Snape and Collins arrived to the dungeons early. Severus leant lightly on the edge of his desk as he looked over notes for lecture and Gwenevere quietly studied from a potions book written by her grandfather, Victor Collins III. Occasionally, he consulted with her regarding the lecture material for tonight. Gwenevere, having thoroughly read through all of the material recently, added a unique perspective and inadvertently jogged his memory of the smallest details that students were likely to come across in their studies. She always had obscure bits of fascinating information learned from her grandfather that intrigued Snape to no end.

The students were beginning to arrive now and Professor Snape was marking down attendance. All registered scholars were present and accounted for so the lecture began several minutes early. Snape paced the room between the tables as he taught the intricate particulars associated with certain potions ingredients and the potential danger present when volatile compounds were mishandled or misunderstood. He rattled off numerous complex formulas and with a flick of his wand, each appeared on the blackboard for analysis.

When every inch of the board was filled, he cleared it and asked each student to recite an example formula that contained a potentially lethal combination in it. As each student called out their flawed formula, Snape entered it on the board and the students disarmed it. Professor Snape called on Professor Collins and she stated a very complex formula with an elusive flaw in it. Snape silently reviewed the formula in his mind before entering it on the board. He asked her to verify the formula as written. He then asked the class if they could identify and disarm the flaw. Several brave souls attempted to dissect it, which was a potion for common pulmonary complaints, but each was unsuccessful.

Finally, Professor Snape unlocked the mystery and disarmed the lethal flaw, which would have killed the drinker within seventy –two hours time. He cautioned the class to be vigilant whenever using herbs in the lung-wart family, to mind the phases of the moon during harvest, and to never to obtain lung-wart extracts from black market sources. With another flick of his wand, the entire lung-wart family of plants appeared on the board in Latin, as they would in the Collins Component Chart with tiny full moon skulls, complete with geographically correct craters on them, which meant that any plant in the lung-wart family must be harvested when the moon was waning or death to the drinker would result. Amazed murmurs filled the dungeon as the students viewed the vast scope of the peculiar plant phenomenon.

Being the only fifth level Potions Master in the country, Snape was regularly summoned to St. Mungo’s Hospital to confer with Doctors on the third floor in reference to Potions and Plant Poisonings. He told of three interesting case studies and rendered the class spellbound with curiosity. Questions and answers were flying around the room like freshly caught Cornish Pixies until he called a halt in the interest of time. Snape had plans tonight.

After lecture, everyone seemed disinclined to end the session and leave the dungeon, almost wishing, as Gwenevere did, that lecture could continue for another hour. He had taken these students, who had all graduated after N.E.W.T.s with honors, to new understanding in the realm of potion making and there were some gifted prospects in the group. Within the course of the semester, most of them had aspirations to continue studying with Professor Snape in the fall.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Snape strode to the entranceway and grabbed his robes. They snapped and settled over him in one arrogant swoop. Gwenevere took the opportunity to stand in front of the door. She was prepared to use careful restraint if need be.

“Severus what are you doing?” she asked firmly, her hands were flat on his heaving chest.

“I’m about to keep a spontaneous appointment with Parker!” He hissed. They were nearly eye-to-eye. He made a conscience effort to not briskly move the woman aside.

“No. You cannot do this now.” She replied. Gwenevere’s resistance conversely fueled his anger and disappointed his impetuous tendencies. 'NO?' He thought.

“Why. Not!” He said in livid measured control. Gwenevere silently called her magic to hand and let it begin to radiate over his chest. Snape reached for her hands to remove them but the look in her eyes informed him dare not. In seconds she perceived a slight shift in his posture.

“Severus, we need to discuss this first.” She stated, holding his eye contact in the tense situation.

“Very well. I’m listening.” He replied bluntly, letting his arms fall slowly to his sides. He was planning to cut short any opposition to him that she might introduce.

“You should not be upset by this.” Her initial statement intrigued him without warning. Snape regarded her with curious astonishment.

“Really? He asked sarcastically, and looked forward to her full explanation. Gwenevere nodded her head.

“Anger…” She began. “Is actually the result of an unexpected action, response or disappointment. If we analyzed Parker’s behavior up until now, we see that the magical valentine is consistent with many of his past actions and statements.” Snape huffed. He wondered if he were in court. “Furthermore, since your position cannot be seriously threatened by his motives, it is a waste of your recourses to act in defense.” ‘Point well made. It *was* beneath him to throttle Parker—admit envy.” Snape thought. “Parker has no freedom of choice independently; his power must come from us. Try and articulate the exact reason for your annoyance.”

The psychology of which she analyzed with uncanny insight to the inner workings of human emotion and motive was spoken in a hypnotic, civil tone of voice. Her hands gradually reached his shoulders as Snape’s anger calmed to a slow simmer.

His thoughts gathered and he realized that he was more annoyed with Parker’s stubborn defiance of his direct orders and nasty threats rather than his affections for the woman to which he was affianced. That-- and the fact he, Snape, was the proverbial dog in the manger. Snape was not jealous in the traditional sense; he indulged his ego with the knowledge that he was in possession of what others sought yet if love were in actual fact **a pure desire for the physical possession, it could in many ways be satisfied. His desire for Gwenevere was insatiable beyond compare and was multifaceted and complex.

In truth, on some distant level he approved Parker’s unforeseen fortitude, and believed that he had the capacity to care deeply for Gwenevere. His apprehension surfaced when he considered the possibility of a failed assignment for The Order or his demise through the grasp of the curse. He took little comfort in knowing Parker would be there to shepard Gwenevere through life as a witch without the use of her magic, should she ultimately choose to remain in the physical world upon his demise.

Parker was tall, handsome, intelligent, kind and…bloody persistent! How far a stretch would it be to assume that Gwenevere would eventually come to…to greatly esteem* him if Snape were dearly departed?

He detached his mind from the thought and gazed into Gwenevere’s eyes: a soft powder blue today. As he slid his wand in an inside pocket of his robes, he sighed a surrender to her. Gwenevere smiled, relieved that his rational thinking had taken over the initial anger. Snape tilted his head and leant towards her and Gwenevere accepted his affections willingly.

“You have a class to teach…” She reminded him after breaking the dazing kiss. He fingered her Gringotts watch and checked the time.

“Again, you are correct in your assessment Doctor Collins.” He quipped, reaching for her robes, which hung on the hook beside him.

“We will continue this party after class tonight. I will speak to Professor Parker in the near future and resolve this conflict of interest. It is my responsibility and I should have done something about it weeks ago.” She said, officially ending the topic of discussion.

She wanted to be certain that Severus would let her manage Parker’s misplaced passion. Gwenevere felt some sort of compassion for him mainly because he was new to Hogwarts and had not yet established friendships and close relationships the way she had. If he stopped obsessing over her, he would enter into the necessary frame of mind to form healthy relationships.

She imagined how alone she would be if not for Severus, the Headmaster, Sir Nicholas, Dobby, Hagrid and even Professor Parker and Madam Pince. Gwenevere knew too well the reality of slipping between icy sheets in winter, and waking up alone day after day, with no one to talk to or comfort, or be comforted by. Being with Severus had opened her eyes to life on the other side, she could never go back again.

“Do you have any idea how glad I am to see you?”

Do you have any idea how glad I am that you’re glad? thinks Mary Anne, dizzy with relief as Cindie catches her in a crushing hug. So, that is to be all right, then. And how good it is to laugh a little as Cindie hustles her toward the stairs with exclamations of how she is going to love her room, and dismisses the men to collect the luggage: “We can let the men bring the bags up, they like to be useful like that.” Hurrying up the stairs after Cindie, Mary Anne is surprised at her own sudden lightheartedness; this is a house of mourning, after all, and it hardly seems quite the thing to be chattering excitedly over trivial matters.

For once Mary Anne does not allow herself to feel guilty. I suppose it will do Mistral more good to have a little life and spirit in the house, instead of us all having the dismals. Respect, yes, but . . . Whatever she had allowed herself to expect, she had not been prepared for Mistral’s greeting at the door, that show of trust, affection, and vulnerability after only the most preliminary verbal sparring. Mistral disarmed—and not especially minding it—is a rare spectacle indeed, and one so affecting to her that only Cindie’s entrance had prevented her from weeping. That, of course, had presented challenges of its own. And in the back of her mind there is the constant awareness of something new with Brandon. She knows not how things will change, nor when, but can sense the possibilities as a gem cutter can detect facets and fire in a rough, unshaped stone. With what I know about my ways of reacting to things, I ought to feel ready to scream, like all my nerves are crawling around on top of my skin. But I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like it’s going to be all right, somehow . . .

“Here. Ready?”

Cindie is grinning at her, and Mary Anne comes to herself and returns the smile. “Ready. Is this where I get locked up in the attic with the mad wife he’s trying to hide?”

“That was Plan B, but I think you’ll like this better. Take a look.” Cindie opens the door and steps through, beckoning Mary Anne inside.

She has only enough time to note the furnishings—comfortable-looking bed, dressing table, armchair with footstool—before her eyes turn to the other end of the room and widen as her mouth drops open in wonder.

Clothes.

Not just any clothes, but vintage and antique clothes, collectibles of the first order, some fitted on dress forms, others arranged against the far wall in a museum-quality display of textile art.

“That can’t be what I think it is!”

Cindie is clearly enjoying herself. “What do you think it is?”

A soft laugh. “I feel like I hardly dare to breathe in here—or touch anything without gloves!” Slowly, Mary Anne walks to the garment that has caught her attention. Yes, it is unmistakably a Delphos gown by Mariano Fortuny, glowing like a ruby, its fine pleated silk shining like new after . . .

“How many years?” whispers Mary Anne. “It could be . . . nearly a hundred, and that gown looks like it was made yesterday. Unbelievable. It’s worth a small fortune all by itself, to say nothing of all the rest in here.” She is on the verge of asking whether Mistral had ever thought to have the room’s contents appraised, but catches herself in time. Of all the tasteless things to bring up at a time like this! Instead, she goes to sit on the bed, beckoning Cindie to join her. “It’s wonderful! I’m going to love being here, I know.” Then, more quietly: “I just wish it could be under happier circumstances. How are things, Cindie? Has it been just horrible? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Alexander shivered in his seat as he drove the route that would eventually take them to Mistral Manor. His eyes momentarily shifted to the passenger's side when he heard the tiny 'click' of Sandy's digital camera. The blonde had put the window halfway down and was taking pictures of the landscape as they drove along. He cleared his throat gently and Sandy turned around, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold wind. "We could stop for a while if you want," he invited gently.

"Sorry, 'Lex. Got caught up in the moment," Sandy murmured as she turned around and put the window back up. She put the camera back down and rearranged herself in her seat. Her eyes seemed faraway as she turned back and gazed out the window with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"It's all right. It's beautiful here," Alexander replied as he slowed down to take a relatively sharp corner.

"Mmm," Sandy agreed with a nod. "Beautiful, yet - strangely remote - at the same time." She turned her head in the tall Englishman's direction. "You've been here before." It was not a question.

Alexander nodded. "When I first found out I was cast as Richard, I spent a few weeks here preparing myself for the role," he explained softly. "I haven't been back here since then." The right side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "My career took off in a different direction and off I went to Hollywood."

"Do you ever regret that... Going there?"

The hazel eyes began to twinkle. "Going to the States? No. I have to admit that the weather is certainly better in California than here this time of the year."

Sandy chuckled at that. "True, but that's not what I'm talking about..."

Alexander sighed, his eyebrows furrowing together in thought for a moment. "Sometimes I do," he admitted frankly. "It's not easy to be known as 'the English dude that wore a rubber headpiece on his head who co-starred in a weird sci-fi show in the late 70's to early 80's.' "

"Ouch," Sandy murmured, wincing. "Not to mention, how terribly wordy," she observed.

Alexander laughed softly and nodded in agreement. "There are downsides and upsides to every actor's career. It's a very fickle business where people like Julia Roberts and Jim Car..."

"Don't you *dare*, Alex!" The words were said said sharply, but it was quickly followed up with throaty giggles.

Alexander inclined his head forward slightly. "All right," he allowed gracefully, trying not to laugh at Sandy's mock-outraged reaction. "But you get the idea."

"Uh huh." Sandy turned to face Alex fully then, her blue-gray eyes intense as she gazed at him. "But overall...?"

Alexander fell silent again, concentrating on the road for a short while. "Things happen for a reason, Sandy. I've always believed that - although I don't like to admit it," he said quietly. "I've made some great friends from that time out in Hollywood and for that, I'm grateful. And then there's the other side..." he paused as she nodded in agreement, "...that was less, err, pleasant to deal with."

"A mixed bag, then?"

"More positive than negative."

Sandy smiled then, her eyes crinkling at the corners before she turned her gaze back to the countryside. The two sat in silence for a while before she turned back towards him. "Can we stop here?"

Alexander pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the rented BMW's engine - they had elected to drive straight from the airport. The two left the car and walked over to an ancient stone wall that overlooked a clearing.

"Stay there," Sandy said as Alexander leaned against the wall, facing her as he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and crossed his long, blue-jean clad legs casually. She backed up until she was able to see him fully in the digital camera's preview window. The late afternoon sunlight played on his features, alternately shadowing and lighting his face as he gazed at her intently. The sun decided to go halfway behind a cloud just as she took the picture, changing the lighting of his profile. She looked down at the picture and nodded in satisfaction.

"Your turn," Alexander said as he pushed himself away from the wall and strode towards her with one hand extended. He started laughing as Sandy made a face at him. "C'mon! What's good for the gander..."

"Okay!" Sandy exclaimed, rolling her eyes as she gave the camera to Alexander before rewarding him with a wicked grin. She strolled over to the wall and leaned against it at first then changed her mind and pulled herself up onto the wall so that she was sitting on top of it.

Alexander looked at the preview screen and then at the subject of the picture he was about to take. He turned his head to the right, frowning. "Sandy, would you mind...?" He made a motion with his hand. "The light's changing."

Sandy nodded and swung her legs up the side of the wall. A couple of moments later, she was standing on top of it, her body silhouetted by the sun. Her hair was tousled by the breeze and her cheeks glowed pink from the nip in the air. A slight smile played on her lips as she looked down at Alexander. He returned the smile as he snapped the picture. "Stay there," he murmured as he began walking towards her.

Sandy waited patiently as Alexander walked over and extended a hand up to her to assist her in getting down, arms automatically sliding against each other's backs as they walked over to the car. "Hard to believe that we were just in Ireland twenty four hours ago," she murmured as Alexander pressed the key fob to unlock the car doors.

"Yes," Alexander replied solemnly as they got inside the car. "I wish that we were here under happier circumstances," he added in quietly as he started up the car's engine.

Sandy nodded in silent response, the expression on her face thoughtful as Alexander put the car in gear and they re-commenced the journey to their final destination.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Slight flashback: Connemara, Ireland:

"I can't believe that you bought all that!" Alexander said with laughter in his voice as they entered the main foyer of their hotel, both of them carrying bags.

"I can't believe it myself! I *never* do this!" Sandy replied, her eyes sparkling. "But there were just so many things that I liked that were perfect for Christmas presents..."

Alexander's eyebrow shot up. "Including a handmade doggie sweater for Oliver?"

Sandy bit her bottom lip as her cheeks turned scarlet. "Only the best for him!" she defended herself.

Alexander's eyebrow remained at full mast. "Of course."

"If you're trying to humor me, Alex, you're doing a really bad job of it," Sandy said, desperately attempting to keep a straight face.

Alexander's face lit up in a warm smile, which Sandy returned. He reached out and gently stroked away a lock of hair falling in front of her eyes.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing attracted the couple's attention and they turned around to see Eileen O'Shea looking at them. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's been messages left for both of you."

The two exchanged glances as they followed Mrs. O'Shea over to the reception desk. "Dev," Alexander said brusquely. Frowning, he turned to gaze at Sandy, who looked up at him and nodded in silent affirmation. He fumbled around in his jacket until he found his cell phone and turned it on, punching in the number provided on the piece of paper.

Alexander waited as the connection made its way back to England and Eamon DeValera's quiet voice answered. "Dev, it's Alexander Dane," he said into the mouthpiece.

There was a pause before Dev replied. "I apologize for interrupting your vacation... Is Sandy there with you?" he asked.

"Yes. She's right next to me."

Dev relayed the news regarding Mistral's mother and of the arrangements being made. Dev paused for a moment when he heard Sandy's voice in the background. Alexander told her and Dev heard her soft, "Oh God," in response.

There was another long pause before Dev cleared his throat and began speaking. "I don't think he'd be expecting the two..." He stopped again when he heard the sound of a cell phone being turned on in the background.

Chapter 18;

Week follows week, and Snape finds no relief from his unhappiness no matter how much firewhisky he drinks. Sirius Black travels between Hogwarts and France, making Snape bitterly jealous, until one night Ella returns and tries to explain why she left him…

“He had dreamed of her voice. Tremulous now, but otherwise always so calm and soothing, loving and warm, music to his ears, its cadences never failed to send shivers along his spine. He could not show her how affecting he found just those few words, so instead he made a hasty retreat and barricaded himself securely behind the tall, reliably sturdy double doors of sarcasm and bitterness.”

All of my stories can be found on the following sites;

www.fanfiction.net/~rickfan37

http://www.astronomytower.org/authorLinks/Rickfan37/

http://adultfan.nexcess.net/aff/authors.php?no=4458

http://sycophanthex.lordandladysnape.com/viewuser.php?uid=25

Take your pick! Thanks.

Mistral had been reclining back on couch, one ankle hooked over his knee and ostensibly engrossed in a novel. At the sound of the knock he closed the book, placed it on the end table, looked over at Cindie, who was ensconced at the other end, and intoned, “And so it begins.” As he rose to get the door Cindie hid her smile behind Jane Eyre. Far from looking put out, Mistral’s expression had been expectant.

*********

Mary Anne and Christopher stood on the landing at the front door waiting for a response to Brandon’s knock. They exchanged a glance and Brandon’s arm went around Mary Anne’s shoulders. She looked around speculatively and wondered aloud, “You don’t suppose there will be a butler do you?”

“I can imagine one in a place like this,” Brandon replied glancing about as well. He really didn’t care who opened the door so long as they did it quickly. It was cold out and had begun to slush, it wasn’t quite snow but was coming close, and cashmere coat or no he wished to get Mary Anne into the house and out of this weather. Any further speculation as to who might be expected to open the door was laid to rest as Mistral flung it wide and stood for a split second framed in the opening. He was wearing dark trousers and white dress shirt. The cuffs of his shirt were folded up exposing his forearms. He extended an arm and ushered them inside.

“Mary Anne, Brandon, you’ve come.” Brandon thought Mistral appeared genuinely pleased to see them but also that he looked uncertain, as if Mistral were the guest and unsure of his welcome. Mistral ran a hand through his hair. “I never thought…”

Mary Anne stepped forward immediately and embraced him soundly. “Silly man,” she scolded into his shirt collar, “as if we wouldn’t want to be here for you.”

Mistral held her out at arm’s length, his hands on either side of her waist, “So, I’m to be admonished am I?”

“You can still save yourself from that fate.”

“Do tell.”

“Let me tell you how sorry I am about your mother. And let me help.”

Mistral was completely disarmed. “Ah, Mary Anne.” They hugged again and Mary Anne patted her friend gently on the back.” Brandon could see the muscles in Mistral’s forearms tense and when Mistral released Mary Anne and stood back he could see the other man’s eyes were bright. Brandon was about to offer Mistral his hand and his sympathies when another voice cut in.

“Mistral, you may wish to release Mary Anne from your clutches long enough to let her take her coat off.” Cindie had come up the hallway and must have seen the embrace. If Mary Anne hadn’t confided in him last night regarding her concerns that the cause of the tension between Cindie and Mistral might be that Cindie had seen something between Mary Anne and Mistral, and if Brandon himself had not recently fought the green eyed monster himself he would not have been attuned to the slight stiffening in Mary Anne’s posture at her friend’s appearance.

Brandon took a step forward, “Miss Cindie. How are you?”

“Better, now that you’re here.” Cindie extended her arms and Christopher Brandon responded. He hugged her, wondering if it was obvious that he had stepped between her and Mary Anne. Overcautious, certainly; Second nature, most assuredly.

When Cindie pulled back, Brandon noted that Mistral had indeed helped Mary Anne off with her coat and he began to remove his own garment preparatory to handing it off to Mistral.

“Mary Anne.” Cindie’s lower lip began to tremble. “Do you have any idea how glad I am to see you?”

If Mary Anne was still harbouring doubts about her welcome Brandon had to suppose they were put to rest by the ‘big ol’ squeezey hug’, as his dearest was wont to term them, that the two ladies exchanged. Before he or Mistral could get another word in edge ways Cindie had beckoned to Mary Anne, “Come on. I’ll show you the room we’ve picked out for you.” She made for the stairs then turned around to say, “You’re going to love it, just wait.” Then to all three of them, “We can let the men bring the bags up, they like to be useful like that.” The pair of them bounded up the stairs like sisters.

Brandon and Mistral turned to look at each other. Both men wore matching grins, both for the same and for different reasons. They seemed to forget for a moment what it was that had brought them together. The circumstances reasserted themselves and Brandon now extended his hand to Mistral. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could do something.”

Mistral said, “You’re here, that’s already more than I could have hoped for.” Brandon did not answer. What could he say to the suggestion that Mistral had apparently been prepared to go through coming events alone, as if he were friendless. Mistral hung Mary Anne’s coat and pulled out his own. When he turned back Brandon had already shrugged back into his own coat. Mistral’s mouth twitched, “Let’s go get those bags, then.”

“Absolutely. You know how we love being useful like that.”

I'm loving your take on Mia--has to be a great story behind those wide eyes. . .but you'd better warn her that Therese is not about to stand back helplessly like Karen did. Eamon would be in for a bit more than a 'Be careful there, darling' and well he knows it. Therese is likely to do something very un-Yule-like with that Mistletoe if she catches wind of Mia's attempts.

And I'd imagine that Therese would seem positively tame in comparrison to Joya.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

After tea with his beloved, Snape ascended stairs at flight speed on his way to the owlry. He turned the corner and noticed parker loitering about the mail slots at the beginning of the alphabetized row. He watched as his hand reached out and then quickly snatched back when he heard the voice behind him.

“You could get dismissed from Hogwarts for tampering with mail belonging to someone else without his or her consent Parker.” Snape informed him. Parker jumped back as if bitten by a snake. He was as white as a sheet and held a hand over his heart.

“Professor Snape! I was just…” Parker stammered.

“You were just what?” Snape’s brows rose as he looked down his nose at Parker. “Your mail is down there with the school gossips: Pince and Pomfrey.” Snape crossed his arms and sneered. The prospect of having Parker face charges was icing on today’s just desserts cake.

“I was just checking to see if my letter to the Headmaster had been received that’s all.” Parker said. Snape strode over to the Headmaster’s mail slot and saw that there was no mail in it. Since it was empty, he surmised that the Headmaster had recently been to the owlry as mail normally entered the slot at a steady pace. He made a mental note to speak to the Headmaster about Parker in the near future.

“You are lying to me Parker, but no matter. I will have the truth soon enough.” Snape stared coldly into his eyes, causing him to perspire. Parker dreaded the notion that Snape somehow had access to his inner most private thoughts. A chill quivered up Parker’s spine as he silently willed Snape to collect his own mail and leave the owlry. To his relief, Snape moved down the row until he stood between the slots belonging to ‘Sinistra’ and ‘Sprout.’ He slowly collected his mail and turned to face Parker.

“I’m warning you, you had better stay away from Professor Collins and Slytherin House or I will see to it that you will find yourself without a teaching position in England. You are a slow study Parker. I have ways of making those who trespass on my property wish they were never born.” Snape said in a low whisper. Parker knew he meant every word. Snape moved to the beginning of the alphabet once more and reached for Gwenevere’s mail.

“What do you think you’re doing then? Parker blurted out nervously. Dread ripped across his face as he imagined Snape with his letter. He felt powerless and frustrated as Snape pulled out numerous envelopes, financial documents, newsletters, and formal invitations, which he freely mixed in with his own mail. Extreme envy flashed within Parker like a small explosion.

“I don’t answer to you parker.” Snape replied thoughtlessly, with a sigh, taking the last envelope out and placing it on the top of the stack. He turned and glared at Parker one last time before leaving the owlry.

Snape entered his quarters and set the mail down in the entranceway. He sorted out his mail and took it into the den before heading back to Gwenevere’s quarters. She was getting ready for class tonight when she heard his knock at the door. When Snape entered he handed her his copy of The Chronicle, which contained her most recent potions work.

“Thank you Severus, I have been waiting to see that.” She said, kissing him on the cheek.

“I thought as much.” He replied, setting her mail down on the table by the door. Gwenevere quickly sorted through the stack in search of the letter from her Grandmother.

“That’s odd…” She said absently.

“What?”

“My Grandmother’s letter is still not here. I wonder what could have happened to it?” she said as she scanned the return addresses once more.

“Maybe Parker took it.” Snape said sarcastically.

“Professor Parker? Why would he?” Gwenevere asked, looking up and appearing puzzled.

“I don’t know. I caught him rummaging through your mail slot a moment ago.” He said. Gwenevere started to comment but was distracted by a disturbance in the mail that she was holding. A small scarlet letter wriggled free, sprouted tiny wings and fluttered overhead like a moth. As they watched, the letter opened amidst a spray of golden sparks and a harp sounded quietly. Gwenevere looked at Snape who was rolling his eyes in disgust.

Dearest Gwenevere,
You are, in mine eyes, faultless beyond compare.
I love you,
Honor you,
Cherish you,
And adore you.
If you were mine, I would devote my life to pleasing you. Naught forbear.
I will humbly kneel before you and pledge to you my heart and soul.
For it is you I extol.
I will stand between you and danger, and gladly give my life.
Be mine wife.
I will be yours until the end and thank the heavens for moments we spend.
My love transcend.
I would provide all that I have and all that I am.
And care for you in sickness and in health, in poverty or wealth.
I beg of you consider my sincere pledge and be kind in your pronouncements.

The valentine ended in a tiny fireworks display and then promptly vanished. Gwenevere stood speechless for several moments and then turned to look at Snape. He was furious and had his wand out.

Even though the last one - Mia's second-last recent job - had been strange. The office manager had spoken to a man named Harry, whose deep voice had turned frostily hostile when she explained what she wanted. "Yes, Mia was an employee of mine - for a little over two months. She left in January of this year."

"And her performance was satisfactory?" The office manager persisted, fighting the urge to apologize and hang up quickly, although she couldn't think why.

A short bitter laugh came over the phone line. "Let's just say that my company hasn't been the same since she was here and leave it at that, shall we? Good day." And he hung up with a sharp click.

So the office manager hired Mia and wondered for days afterwards whether she'd done the right thing. Mia's announcement that she wanted to work with "handsome actors" appeared to have been sincere. She'd made a bee-line for every man on the set, seemingly unaware of their lack of interest or even distaste for her tactics.

She'd bent over to pick up invisible paperclips in front of Alexander Dane.

She'd adjusted her stockings in front of Christopher Brandon, a process that required a great deal of fiddling with her hemline.

She'd worn a strapless bustier to work one day and pointedly slipped a twig of mistletoe into the cleavage in front of Eamon de Valera.

By the end of the first week, she was already a legend at the studio. None of the men took her up on her obvious offers. None of the women were pleased with her tactics. The only two people who had no opinion about her were the two people who hadn't met her. Joya who was still off on leave. And George, who'd caught a bad cold and was home reocovering.

The Monday of Mia's second week, George returned to work. Mia was alone in the front office when he came through the door. She took one look and shimmied around the desk at double speed. "Oooh! I know you! You are George Nott! I so admire your work!" She seized him by the arm and pressed her entire length against him. "You're so much handsomer in person."

George looked down and blinked. "And you are?"

"I am Mia. I work here in the office." She clutched his arm tighter. "I am here to serve all these wonderful actors...and the women actors too, of course."

"Of course." George eyed her carefully. He recognized the sort, of course. A groupie, definitely, but a blood-sucking one too. "And what kind of....service....do you provide?"

Mia smiled. "Whatever is needed. Just tell me what you want...and I'll deliver."

George grinned. "I'm sure you will. Well, Mia, why don't we go to my trailer and we can discuss the kind of service I like to get from studio employees? We can be more private there."

Mia bounced happily in place for a moment. George tugged her out the door and headed for his private facility. From the doorway across the room, the office manager watched with pursed lips, shaking her head. She knew that George was presently unattached but she hoped that he'd come to his senses and beg for Joya's forgiveness. He'd never have looked twice at any other woman if Joya had been -

The door opened and interupted the office manager's thoughts. She turned to greet the newcomer with a standard "May I help you?" but didn't get past the first word. Surprise knocked the speech right out of her.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Parker fled from the second floor and went out to walk by the pond and collect his thoughts. His mental anguish was unbelievably acute and all he wanted to do was hide. He felt like such a fool. Snape had correctly analyzed his deepest, most personal shortcomings and ridiculed him for them. Parker imagined them laughing at him and telling the tale in the staff lounge. He tried to visualize Gwenevere mocking him but somehow the sight would not materialize. Could it be that Gwenevere may not ever know what has happened? Maybe she had no idea that Snape could be capable of such cruelty. He focused his thoughts on Gwenevere and wondered if maybe she could be in danger; if Snape could one day turn his cruelty upon her.

As he sat on the bench and looked out over the water, a thought surfaced in his mind. He suddenly remembered the magical letter that he had placed in Gwenevere’s mail slot. Panic struck him and he realized the importance of obtaining that letter and destroying it before she had a chance to know what was in it. He looked at his watch and estimated he had been there almost an hour. He jogged back to the castle and headed straight for the owlry. Once inside, he scanned the surroundings to make sure that he was alone. All was quiet.

He stepped forward tentatively and let his eyes gaze nonchalantly towards the mail slot between Professor Binns and the Headmaster. There were several letters in Professor Binns’ slot, however they were covered in dust and looked as thought they had been there for centuries. The Headmaster’s slot was moderately full and Parker recalled that Professor Dumbledore or his assistant cleared it several times each day.

Gwenevere’s slot was jammed packed with mail. Parker recognized the financial materials, which protruded, precariously on the edge causing him to think that she was still very much involved with the powerful players in the business sect. ‘One does not simply drop that sort of life after being on top for so long. She would surely miss the power, prominence, and pecuniary rewards to be certain’ he thought. He was about to reach for the contents of the slot when he heard his name being uttered.

“How are you today Owen?” a kind voice inquired.

“Professor Dumbledore! I didn’t expect to see you.” Parker exclaimed. He turned and regarded the white wizard trying not to seem guilty of something. He plunged his hands in his pockets and tried to appear casual.

“They do let me roam the corridors from time to time.” The Headmaster joked. “Did you have something for me?” He was peering in the direction of his own mail slot, which was where Parker’s hand had been reaching.

“Er, yes I did, however, I seem to have forgotten it.” Lied Parker, thankful for the perfect excuse, which was handed to him on a silver platter.

“Very well, I will receive it later. Tell me, how are things going for you at Hogwarts? Is everything all right?” Asked the Headmaster kindly. Parker seemed a bit nervous he thought.

“Yes. Perfectly fine thank you. Couldn’t be better actually. Brilliant in fact. Sir.” Said Parker as Professor Dumbledore collected his letters.

“Good. I am pleased with your work. Your Arithmancy classes are the topic of excessive complaints from the students, which tells me you are doing a fine job then. Carry on.” Professor Dumbledore said with a chuckle. Parker allowed a smile.

“Thank you Professor Dumbledore. Good day.” Parker watched as the Headmaster rounded the corner out of sight and then sighed in relief. His heart pounded as he again moved to Gwenevere’s mail.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Parker felt the heartache as if a cold steel knife had impaled his aorta and he realized there might be more than a professional connection between them. Parker turned to leave. They had not closed the door immediately and Parker stopped in the corridor several steps down. Her words: ‘I shan’t keep them long’ echoed in his mind as he agonized over the decision to turn back, to see her one more time. He turned and doubled back. He was returning to tell her to keep the books for as long as needed, he wanted her to have them; it was a connection between them and they would remind her of him each time she saw them.

The door was still open as he turned to peer inside. He drew a breath but the words caught in his throat like shards of broken glass from a picture frame. Snape was standing behind her and she was standing before him with her eyes closed. Her head was sharply tilted to her left exposing her long graceful throat. Parker saw a large reddish-purple bruise that looked a day old on Gwenevere’s fair skin. Snape’s right hand was holding her long hair to the side to give him a clear path to her jugular. He was methodically placing slow, sensuous kisses up and down her throat and purring to her in Latin using his deepest tones.

Snape slowly looked up from his work and met parker’s stare head on. He knew all along that Parker would come back and had been standing there watching. Snape had the icy supernatural look of a ghostly predator in his eyes and a sadistic sneer slowly curled on his lips as he gleefully ‘twisted the knife’ in Parkers bleeding heart. Snape lowered his eyes and continued in his endeavor exclusively for Parkers benefit. Mocking him. Parker watched in agony as Snape unleashed his seductive charm upon her throat for another achingly tender kiss, executed by an experienced seductive vampire. He had a decidedly possessive posture as his hands slowly slid from her shoulders down her arms and across her midsection. Gwenevere’s hands slowly caressed his forearms.

The image of their languid intimacy burned all traces of child-like innocence and hope from parker’s system leaving a harsh residue of life altering devastation. Nausea swept over him as bile burned its way up his constricted throat. He turned and fled the corridor. Snape had just taught him the bitter facts of life as promised. “With pleasure.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

As Snape paused to savor the last insult hurled at his rival, Professor Parker considered Professor Snape for several moments and decided to try and defuse him with kindness. He had heard the rumors about Snape and knew that the other professors in the school hated him. Maybe if he could show Snape some humanity, Parker could ultimately obtain his goal. Parker liked to think that he had a way of seeing the good in everyone and did not believe that Professor Snape was as appalling as everyone made him out to be—obviously Gwenevere found a way to spend time with him after all. Parker confided in Snape, wizard to wizard. He would open himself up to him. How could Snape ostracize him then? Parker prepared to bribe the guard at Gwenevere’s door with honey rather than vinegar.

“No, you misunderstand. I mean that I had only read about her as Doctor Collins and just assumed that Doctor Collins was a wizard.” Parker relaxed his confrontational manner and softened his eye contact and body language. “Doctor Collins has been my absolute intellectual idol for ages. When I first laid eyes on her here, I did not know she was ‘The Doctor Collins,’ just that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I think I am in love with her and I just need to show her how sincere I am. I worship the ground she walks on and the air she breathes. She is a goddess in my eyes.” Parker confessed, looking down and kicking his feet a bit.

“Yes, well maybe there is a ray of hope for you yet. Although I seriously doubt it. And as this is all very touching…” Snape rolled his eyes…“I am bored stiff with your insipid ramblings as regards to your ridiculously insignificant schoolboy crushes so spare me your sickening fantasies concerning a well bred woman who doesn’t even know you exist and wouldn’t care to.

You are coarse Parker. You seem to have permanently misplaced or perhaps never possessed the ability to read and understand the subtle language that women extend when they say to you that they are simply not the least bit attracted. It takes a certain class of wizard to properly court a woman such as Professor Collins and you are sorely lacking-- to be kind. Do you actually think that a woman such as Professor Collins cannot see that you are a lovelorn puppet who wears his heart on his sleeve? Might I suggest you try and conceal your true emotions and pursue someone more your speed such as Moaning Myrtle for instance? You could work yourself all the way up to Delores Umbridge—in time.”

Snape served parker a crushing blow and was gearing up for a second barrage of insults. Parker had no idea who Moan