"What. Did. you just call me?" It was the clearest, most enunciated sentence he had ever heard her speak, and the chilling calm she spoke it in was enough to kill any remaining ardour that had been burning through him mere seconds ago. More disconcerting still was the uncharacteristic lack of profanity. There was no discerning her emotional reaction, her temper, with how disconnected her words were.

He knew he had mere seconds, fractions of seconds, really, to proffer an answer. It had better be good or else she might explode - a proverbial bomb, tripped but not yet triggered, who's wire he had to snip before combustion. There was no margin for error or time for delay - either of those things could lead to her firing off.

"I. I called you Lily." He didn't often trade in straight truths, but he saw no other viable option in this case. No lie could be convincing enough - she had heard what she had heard, and perhaps if she had been of lesser intelligence he could have manipulated her long enough to where she thought maybe she had imagined it all along. Not only was she too clever for that, she was also strong-willed and bullheaded enough he would never be able to convince her of anything. And in the end, her particular brand of madness did not extend to auditory hallucinations and she knew it.

The truth was at least startling enough, confusing and unexpected enough, that it could buy him a few more seconds. The first wire snipped successfully.

She took a step back, staring at him intently, and though he watched her body language carefully, he couldn't bring himself to look her in the face for more than a second at time, and never directly in the eyes. But, the moment she was out of arm's reach, she squared her shoulders and continued to stare him down. "And why, exactly, did you just call me Lily?" Another terse and emotionless question.

Now for this second wire . . . what could his possible response be? That he forgot? That wasn't exactly true, and there was no point lying if the lie would be as damaging as the truth. Perhaps he should try to pass it off as a nickname? My angel, my darling, my rose, my lily? That might have worked if either one of them was an entirely different person or if their own dynamic had ever held even an ounce of outward affection. No - no matter how well he lied, she would never believe that he was trying to give her an endearment.

She took his lack of answer as an answer in and of itself. "Lily is someone else . . . .some girl that you fuck around with?"

He hated that she phrased it in such a crass fashion - it tainted and disrespected Lily's memory. Their relationship had been both far more intimate and yet far more innocent then she made it sound. More complicated and more simple. But he could not share any of that with her, although something deep in him knew that was what he should do. Part of him knew that he could not be angry about her disrespect for Lily when he had been so callous as to call her by the wrong name.

He knew all this, but it didn't matter. He did not want to be vulnerable. It was a risk, and he'd rather scramble to rebuild the walls. "If you think you were my first, or even my most memorable. . . " He sneered, deciding to toss around the thinly veiled insult as a way of stopping her from prying further into who this other woman was . . . pushing her away as cruelly as he could.

She looked startled, but unhurt. Mostly just annoyed. "Un-fucking-acceptable!" Ah, yes, there was the profanity he was used to her using. It's return allowed him to fall back into his own usual patterns more comfortably.

"Oh, I did not realize that you had the ultimate power and authority to unilaterally decide what can or cannot be in someone's past. Quite a skill. I recommend marketing it." He pushed himself up from the couch, buttoning up his pants as quickly as he could - refusing to continue this fight at a disadvantage.

"I don't care what's in your past. I don't care what's in your future. I don't even particularly care what you do when you leave here. You could have fucked a million women before me, and a million more after me. For work or pleasure. I don't care. But don't get it twisted; when you are here," she gestured widely around her, "in my house, in my bed, with my mouth around your dick, you damned well better remember who you are with." Each example was stated with a firm point of her finger. It was a proud and scolding tone that he would otherwise be impressed with, had it not been directed at him.

"I. . ."

She cut him off with a quick raised hand and raised voice. "Shut it! I am not finished yet, am I?" She took a moment and took a steadying breath, re-modulating her tone. "Look - I don't ask much from you. And not 'cause I am trying to prove a point or anything. I just don't. You are what you are, and I am what I am, and it all is what it is. And that is fine. I don't need undying professions of love or to talk about feelings every 15 hours or else I die. All I am asking for is an ounce of respect. No, scratch that. I am demanding an ounce of respect. If you want to keep showing up here, if you want to keep doing whatever it is that we are doing, you've got to give me at least that much. When you are here, with me, you have to actually be here for ME. That for whatever short time we have together, whenever we can find it, that it's us, only us, and no one else. Got it?"

"How dare you tell me what I . . . "

"No, how dare you, Severus Snape. How dare you. You are a selfish prick, and that is half the reason I like you, but this is just beyond the pale. I might not deserve much, I deserve at least that much, especially from you. So . . . figure your shit out. Either you are here or you're not. If you can't get with it, get out." And with a quick spin on her heels, her back was towards him and she was marching away.

"An. . .Mis. . ." He stumbled over what to call her. "Wait!" He used his best intimidating teacher voice to try and get her to stop, which was foolish. It never worked when he was her teacher so why should it work now?

"Figure. Your. Shit. Out." She didn't even turn to look at him as she pulled open the door and left him with that directive.

He collapsed back on the couch, leaning forward on his knees, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose. Well, that went well. Lily's voice, possibly the only time he wasn't pleased to hear it, goaded him. What were you thinking, Sev?

"I was thinking that a beautiful red-hed was . . . "

So, you think she is beautiful?

"Don't turn my words on me. You knew what I meant. Seeing that red hair reminded me of you, of when we. . . "

Oh please, Sev. The closest we ever came to what you two were doing was when we were twelve years old and experimenting because we felt safe with each other. It was hardly more than 'I will show you mine if you show me yours' sort of thing. It meant nothing. . .

"It meant something to me!"

I guess that was always part of our problem. Everything always meant more to you. Either way, it doesn't explain how you could call her by my name. She should have meant more to you.

"It cannot . . . she cannot mean more to me than you. She cannot honestly expect …"

Her expectations are actually reasonable - worryingly low even. Her mother should probably have taught her a bit more about self-worth. It's you that shouldn't expect her to be understanding of this weird, obsessive torch you are carrying for me, especially if you never tell her anything about it.

"Yes, I can foresee that conversation going swimmingly. 'I may be involved with you physically,but I happen to still be in love with my dead best friend, and I will never be able to love you as much as I love her . . . will never be able to love you at all" He scrambled to correct himself in the end. "Hardly a topic that will earn me any sympathy from her."

Never say never, Sev. At the very least, you should give her a try. She has always had a way of surprising you. You don't have to tell her everything, but you owe her at least some sort of explanation.

"I probably owe her far more than that." He thought back to the night he came here after Dumbledore. He wasn't entirely sure he would have made it through that night on his own. And the weeks he spent here thereafter - it gave him the rest he needed, to be able to go into the final, wearying phase of this long game with some energy, some belief in himself restored. He may never love her, but in some ways he owed her his life. "I should just leave. She doesn't need me. . . . and I don't need her. She is just a distraction." He tried to retreat back from the self admission, tried getting back to the place where he believed he didn't need any one, and that she meant nothing to him.

I still think you should go try to talk to her, but at the very least if you are going to leave you need to go tell her, so she knows, gets closure. If you don't give her that you are a worse coward than I ever considered.

That admonition cut him to the quick, and he knew he had to go talk to her, one way or another. Somehow, that prospect was the most terrifying thing he had faced in a very long time - Voldemort included.

Some schools of potioneering thought insisted that to master the craft, you must always be clear-headed, calm, and composed before brewing. They even recommended meditation prior, to prepare yourself.

Nezza thought that was complete shit.

The act of brewing was, in itself, an act of meditation to her, and she was seldom clear headed, calm or composed, so if she needed to be before making a potion, she would never make anything.

Today, she ran the gamut of every emotion, and none at all - she was angry, hurt, annoyed. Hell, somehow she was even still horny. Some how that big, stupid, greasy, idiot still managed to get her mojo going, even as she was yelling at him for calling her by some other bitch's name. She hoped that the soothing familiar motions of mixing, cutting, and cooking would help calm her.

"I mean, seriously? It's not like he's James freakin' Bond - he can't have slept around so much he has a hard time keeping the names straight." She groused to herself as she forcefully yanked the needles off the dried branches of Aphrodite's Hemlock that she had pulled down from the drying racks earlier.

The fact that he more than likely didn't have a list of conquests a mile long, made it a little harder to deal with, if she was being honest. Maybe she could have gotten around it easier if she thought he had a different woman every night, and he just forgot who he was with.

But if she had to hazard a guess, she would guess that she was only one of a very few notches on his bedpost - a record not dissimilar to her own, despite him having fifteen years on her. "Well, at least I know now for sure there is at least one other."

She couldn't help but wonder what this Lily person was like - who she was, how he knew her. If she was prettier, smarter, nicer then herself. Probably. Being any and all of those would not be hard. She was probably all that and more. Nezza tried to tell herself that he would never go for a girl like that but she knew at least two things about her besides her name, and that was enough to give her an idea of what kind of person Snape went for.

She wanted to cry. And to scream. Instead she set about powdering moonstone with perhaps a little more rage and vigour then was entirely necessary. The loud pounding of pestle against mortar was enough that she didn't hear the creak of the steps, or footfall behind her. His clearing of throat was the first indication that she wasn't alone with her work any more, and she cursed in Romanian, startled, and dropped the stone tool she was using.

"I have not come down here to apologize."

"Never thought you would." She said with a shrug and went back to work. She wasn't giving him the cold shoulder for effect, or to try and manipulate him, but only to hold her ground. She set him a task and wasn't going to try and force any confession, admission or commitment out of him. He had to say whatever he was going to say on his own, without any kind of influence from her.

"I do feel that I . . . need to explain a few things." He was clearly struggling, the words coming even more slowly than his usual, deliberate pace of tone.

"Big of you." Perhaps she should be kinder. Perhaps this Lily person would have been. But right now, the most she could do was listen to him.

"Would you stop working for a second and look at me?" He bit at her, his temper flaring just a little.

"Why should I? You couldn't be bothered to look me in the face the entire time I was blowing you so why would you want to look at me now?"

"If you think I am going to beg or grovel, you are mistaken. I will just leave."

"Fine." She threw down her tools and spun quickly to face him. Not only were her fears confirmed that seeing his stupid face was going to weaken her resolve, even just a little, but it suddenly made her realize that her eyes were a little more watery then she had noticed and now she was at a disadvantage cause he could clearly see that she was crying. If that had any effect on him, he certainly didn't let it show. She wasn't sure if she appreciated that or not. The fact that he was not mocking her mercilessly for crying like a sniveling teenager was a sign of how different this situation was - how much this was untested ground.

"I . . . I am not an affectionate man."

"No shit."

He, she had to give him credit, for once did not raise to the bait. He just ignored her surly interjection. "I have only ever loved one person. It ended . . .badly. The relationship. Not my feelings. My feelings for her . . . will never change, and will never fade."

She saw how much he was struggling with this, and seeing that struggle got to her. It was genuine. It spoke of a level of effort she didn't expect, from anyone in general, or him in particular. She entirely expected him to storm out as he had done previously when faced with possibly having to deal with feelings. "Oh fuck it, I can't deal with a big dramatic heart to heart and weepy confessions without a cup of tea. C'mon." She waved him over to the corner that held the small table, and quickly repurposed the plain water that she had set to boil for the potion into tea mugs, quickly doctoring his just the way he liked it. Part of her wanted to make it wrong, just to fuck with him, but if he was going to make an effort (no matter how badly it was coming out), she felt she needed to do the same.

He took a long sip of the tea, making the same grunting sound he would make when a student's assignment was brewed well but he didn't want to compliment it. She took that as high praise, and leaned against her work table, leaving a certain amount of distance between them still, and blowing on her own drink to cool it. "So. . . . one love?"

His face clouded over, and she thought that maybe the moment had passed, that he was going to clam up again, but after a second of what looked like internal warring with himself, he gave one curt nod.

"Her name was Lily, obviously." Nezza prompted when he seemed to still be chewing on the words. At the mention of the name, a flash of fury, fear and anguish bolted across his face, as if he never wanted anyone else to say her name, as if it was both sacred and taboo at the same time. "And she was a Gryffindor?" He nodded again. "And a redhead?" Nezza cast a glance at the corner of the work bench, where the wig she had worn was chucked after she had ripped it from her own head, the dozens of hair pins scattered across the room from the violent removal. Again, he only responded with a nod. "So, nothing like me then?" It hurt to vocalize that thought, but she did it, like ripping off an elastoplast - get it over with quickly. She knew there was no deep rooted affection, or even weed like affection in him for her; she was convenient, comforting, and to some extent physically attractive to him, and for the most part she accepted that, but ultimately, she was not what he wanted, and that smarted.

"Not a thing like her." That, he responded to quickly, and maybe she did not hide the slight sting his response caused because he seemed to notice it. He took a bracing sip, then looked directly at her, for the first time that entire evening. "But the dissimilarity has a certain amount of appeal to it." Another sip, as if stalling for time, or looking for courage in the caffeine. "I assure you, you are impossible to mistake for anyone else, and I have never done so prior to this. Just, to see you dressed like that, and with that hair." He closed his eyes, whether to try envisioning it again, or to block it out, was anyone's guess.

"She must have done a number on you."

"She did absolutely nothing wrong. She was . . . perfect." The words both spilled from him quickly, and yet in stilted spurts, as if they were words he thought about every day but had never actually said. "I was the fool. I erred. It was all my fault."

"I can believe that part, you ARE an idiot, but she can't have been perfect. No one is."

He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but she could see by his posture, his forlorn expression, that he really didn't want to talk about her further. "You don't need to tell me more. I .. . I don't need to know. You are in love with her. You don't love me and never will. That's fine." He raised a sceptical eyebrow. "No, really it is.I don't need romance and affection and poetry and eternal love. All I need to know is that you are here for me. That whatever weird thing it is that we have going on here, it's ours. Not yours and some ghost of girlfriend past, where I am just a stand in or an understudy. Either you are here for me, or you aren't. I can't just be what you use to scratch an itch someone else left you with. Though, if the red hair really does it for you, I can always put the wig back on, as long as you remember it's me under it." She tried an impish wink and it was almost convincing.

"No. Never again. You are you. She is she. You will never be able to replace her, so never change yourself to try and compete- it won't do either of you justice. It is as you said - I am here for you, not for a pale imitation of someone else.

Somehow, despite declaring his love for someone other than her, his words actually comforted her, made her feel better. It was exactly the right thing for him to say, exactly what she needed to hear at that moment. Undying confessions of love would have been unbelievable. Overwrought apologies would have been uncharacteristic. What he gave her was enough - honesty, and assurances that while she was not who he longed for, she was enough, just as she was, at least for now.

It didn't stop some of the lingering doubts that still plagued her, insecurities about her age, her looks, but they were at least reduced to something resembling their normal volume. "So . . . was it just the hair that got you so hot and bothered or. . . "

"What is it exactly that you are trying . . . and failing, might I add . . . to ask me?" He asked in his familiar, moderately annoyed tone of everyday use.

She licked her lips, she hoped seductively, and pushing her palms against the tabletop behind her she lifted herself up to sit on the ledge, slowly spreading her knees apart and tugging up slowly at the already scanty hemline. "Have you ever had dirty fantasies about a student?"

Pupils dilated, and breath catching made it clear he liked what he was seeing, but something ingrained in him, some innate dignity and honor still took a second to be offended by the suggestion. "No, never! Of course not." He might not have been a very good or willing teacher, but he'd be damned if anyone ever called his professional integrity in that regard into question.

Despite it, though he wore a surly, yet still somehow aroused look on his face that made Nezza need to stifle a laugh - it endeared him even further to her, the contrary man that he was, and seeing his nearly apoplectic eye twitch, so unique to when she said something particularly infuriating calmed the last of her nerves, affirmed that things were back to whatever their normal was, only a little better for having had the fight.

"Well, do you want to have one now?" Tugging at the tie that was slowly fading back to green, she let if fall loosely around her neck, hand eventually tracing it's way down her shirt front, popping the small white buttons of her oxford shirt, till the edge of her black lace bra were exposed.

Chair scraped against the scratched oak floors as he stood quickly, and took a few determined strides across the room, eyes watching her like a hawk as she ran her own fingers along the small curve of her chest - she felt ridiculous as hell, attempting to be seductive like this, but she was watching him as closely as he was watching her and it seemed to be working.

When he finally reached the table she sat on, he stopped short for a minute, taking in the debris and detritus that surrounded her. "Here? On this table? With glass vials and knives?"

"What can I say, I live for danger." She took that moment to seize his still untucked shirt tails, to pull him closer.

It didn't take much force as he stepped forward eagerly, using his knees to push hers out further, catching them with his open palms, running up the smooth skin along the outside of her slender thighs - his work roughened fingers leaving behind them a trail of heat, making her even more eager then she already was. "This breaks both Ministry guidelines and unspoken rules of etiquette for safe brewing procedure."

"Mmmm, yes, keep talking dirty to me." She groaned, with no little sense of sarcasm.

He growled a little, his large hands cupping her angular hips, forcefully yanking her closer to him. "Silence, impudent brat."

She smirked a little, taking the insult as a compliment. "Whatever you say, Professor."