Fire in The Dungeon

Ch 24 Irony

As the days slipped by, Snape couldn't ignore the growing change in Andromeda. It started subtly—a slight distance in her voice, a hesitation in her smile—but soon became apparent to anyone who knew her well. The warmth that once defined her presence seemed to be fading, replaced by a cold detachment that worried him more than he cared to admit.

She no longer lingered after staff meetings or exchanged light-hearted words with colleagues. Instead, she retreated to her classroom or the quiet corners of the castle, where no one could reach her. Even her interactions with students, once filled with gentle encouragement, had become formal and detached. She was keeping everyone at arm's length.

Snape noticed it most keenly in their own interactions. Where there had once been playful banter, now there was only a cool formality. She no longer teased him or found subtle ways to draw him out of his brooding silences. And when they spoke, an unspoken barrier stood between them, as if she were intentionally closing herself off.

As he glared at a particularly stubborn cauldron, a knock on the door interrupted his reverie. The door creaked open, and a young Hufflepuff from Andromeda's class entered, carrying a heavy box. Snape barely looked up, his eyes fixed on the parchment he was pretending to review.

"Professor Snape," the witch said, her voice tentative. "I have the new supplies from Professor Potami's class."

"Place it on the counter and leave," Snape snapped, his voice colder than he intended.

The witch's shoulders flinched at the sharpness in his tone, but she complied swiftly, setting the box down with a hurried glance at him before exiting the room. Snape remained silent, staring at the box as if it were the source of all his woes.

The door closed with a soft thud, and Snape's shoulders relaxed marginally. He had no one to blame for his frustration but himself, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. It grated on him, this shift in her demeanor. She had always been a bit distant, but this was different. This was a withdrawal, a deliberate effort to keep herself apart from everyone, including him. And despite his best efforts to push her from his mind, the image of her, aloof and unreachable, lingered at the edges of his thoughts.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of lessons, Snape found himself once again at her classroom door. He hadn't meant to; his feet had simply carried him there, a place he had grown uncomfortably accustomed to visiting. But tonight, as he stood there, he hesitated. He wasn't sure what he was expecting—an answer, perhaps, to the distance that had grown between them. Or maybe just a sign that she was still the Andromeda he knew, the one he had come to care for in his own reluctant way.

The door was ajar, and as he quietly pushed it open, he found Andromeda standing by one of the tall windows, staring out into the darkening grounds. The room, usually filled with the soft, melodious sound of her playing to the plants, was eerily silent. The plants themselves seemed to have withered slightly, lacking the vitality they usually drew from her presence. The usual warmth that surrounded her was gone, replaced by an unyielding coldness that mirrored the dying light outside.

"Andromeda," he began softly, trying to pierce through the icy distance that had formed between them.

She didn't turn to face him. "What is it, Severus?" she asked, her voice flat, devoid of its warmth.

"You've been different," he said, his voice laced with concern. "Not just with me, but with everyone. It's as if you're shutting us all out."

At that, she finally turned. There was no denying the shadow that had fallen over her features. Her once-vibrant lavender eyes were dull, the amethyst-like gleam that had captivated him now dimmed. "Is that why you're here?" she asked, her tone sharp. "To tell me that I'm being distant?"

"I'm concerned," he repeated, more firmly this time. "You're not yourself, Andromeda. Why are you punishing everyone for Dumbledore's transgression?"

She sighed, the exhaustion in her posture more apparent now. "I'm not punishing anyone, Severus," she replied, her voice tinged with resignation. "I'm simply responding to the most obvious truth that my true form revealed—not just to you, but to me."

His brow furrowed, confusion lacing his features. "What truth?"

She looked away, back to the window, her gaze distant as she continued. "That I'm not a witch, Severus. I'm not even human. I'm something else entirely—something not even I fully understand. And seeing my true form... it did more than just show you the truth. It reminded me of it."

Snape's breath caught in his throat as he listened, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. She wasn't frightened of his reaction, as he had feared—no, this was something deeper.

"For a time, I could almost forget," she continued, her voice growing softer, tinged with an unexpected melancholy that sent a chill down his spine. "I could almost convince myself that I was part of this world, that I belonged here. But Dumbledore broke that illusion. Perhaps I should thank him for it."

"You're here," he said after a long pause, his voice tight with emotion, "because you want to be. Because you care."

She shook her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips, but it was a sad, distant smile. "I'm here to do my part, to help Harry defeat the last heir to Slytherin, and then I'll return to my small corner of the world. There's no point in emotional attachments beyond what is necessary. I've learned that the hard way. I'm not human, so I can't afford to think like one."

Snape's temper flared briefly, frustration bubbling to the surface. "And that's it? You're just going to push everyone away because of what you are? Because you think you don't belong?"

Her eyes flashed with a mix of sorrow and resignation as she met his gaze. "I'm not pushing anyone away. I'm protecting them—from me, from the truth that I can't change. I'm something that doesn't fit into this world, not with wizards, not with Muggles. There's no place for me here, or anywhere, and that's not something anyone can fix."

He stared at her, his heart pounding in his chest, torn between his unyielding sense of duty and the painful realization that she was slipping away from him. "You don't have to do this alone, Andromeda."

She studied him for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Finally, she shook her head, her expression softening, looking almost sad. "But that's where you're wrong, Severus. And there's nothing more to say. Now go, don't spare me another thought."

She turned away again, her back to him, signaling the end of the conversation. Snape lingered in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Andromeda's silhouette outlined by the fading light. With a heavy heart, he left the classroom, realizing that whatever trust they had shared was now hanging by a thread, and the thought of losing her—truly losing her—was almost too much to bear.

As he walked through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, the walls closing in around him, anger surged within him. The frustration, the helplessness, it all boiled down to one man.

"Damn you, Dumbledore," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with venom. The old man had meddled once again, and this time, it might cost them more than they could afford to lose.

Snape's footsteps echoed through the empty corridors as he left Andromeda's classroom, her words replaying in his mind. She was shutting everyone out, convinced she was protecting them from a truth she couldn't change. He knew that impulse all too well—it was how he lived, pushing the world away to guard his secrets and sorrows. But something about Andromeda made him want to spare her that fate.

As he reached his office and sank into his chair, a bitter irony gnawed at him. He was angry at Dumbledore for breaking her fragile sense of belonging, but wasn't he guilty of the same? Closing himself off, hiding behind walls of cold detachment, just as she was now doing. But with her, it was different. She was strong, yes, but she looked so small and tired, as if the weight of her thoughts was too much to bear alone. He couldn't stand the idea of her retreating into the same lonely darkness he knew too well.

Despite his own instincts to distance himself, he felt a fierce determination to reach her, to pull her back from the edge. She didn't have to carry this burden alone, not if he could help it. Snape knew that if anyone could understand what she was going through, it was him—and for her, he was willing to fight against the very fate he had resigned himself to.