InsaneJournal

Fic: The Victory of Sisyphus
Title: The Victory of Sisyphus
Author: nishizono
Pairing: Severus Snape/The Baron
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1630
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine

Summary: But then, Severus supposes, when have ghosts ever paid heed to the castle’s wards? His certainly never have.

Author's Notes: This was more difficult than I imagined it would be, and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the result. I feel that a warning for character death may be in order.


~*~*~

He is already there when Severus enters the library, a silvery mist lingering between the fireplace and the first row of leather bound volumes. It is not the same library used by the meddlesome creatures that Minerva calls students, but a private place, warded against the intrusion of any who are not members of the Hogwarts faculty.

But then, Severus supposes, when have ghosts ever paid heed to the castle’s wards? His certainly never have.

“Good evening, Baron,” he says, sparing only the briefest of glances for the apparition in question.

The Baron acknowledges him with a short nod, drifting further into the center of the room as Severus ignites the kindling in the fireplace with a graceful flick of his wand. There is a chill that lingers about the solemn spirit, permeating the already drafty library, but Severus does not mind. He is as comfortable with the chill as he is with the Baron’s presence.

“You seem to be in a rather genial mood tonight,” The Baron observes, and Severus smirks.

The potions professor is in a rather companionable mood tonight, or at least as close to it as he ever allows himself to be. His students are still hopeless, and Minerva is as meddlesome as her predecessor, but it is the weekend now and for the first time in a number of years, he has found himself with enough time away from grading and detentions to read something other than the potions journals that clutter the desk in his office.

Tipping the decanter of brandy that stands ready on the side table at all times, he watches with appreciation as the amber liquid fills a crystal glass. This is his glass, the one that not even Flitwick, with his lack of social graces and poor observations skills, will touch. When the glass is halfway filled, he lifts it and takes an appreciative sniff of the brandy before sinking into his chair, the wingback upholstered in dark green satin that sits near the roaring fireplace.

“Might I stay awhile?” The Baron inquires, almost politely, and Severus nods. This particular spirit is prone to doing whatever he pleases anyway, and they both know that the question was posed merely in the interest of maintaining decorum.

Severus can feel The Baron watching him as he summons a book from the shelves, but it is not unsettling. The presence of the ghosts that wander the halls of the castle is as familiar to him as the damp floors of the dungeons or the clatter of footsteps on the stairs as students rush to and from classes.

“I’ve not read that particular book yet,” the apparition confides in a low voice as Severus opens the volume in his hands and takes a sip of brandy.

“I was not aware that you enjoyed such things,” Severus remarks with an arched eyebrow. It is not meant as an insult, and The Baron seems to understand.

“You have never asked,” the spirit says, hovering near the couch across from the professor’s chair as if he would sit, were he able to do such a thing.

They regard one another in silence for a moment before Severus bows his head and runs one stained fingertip down the page.

“Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed…”

~*~*~

He is there again tonight, having already taken his station near the fireplace, and Severus resists the urge to smirk at this predictable encounter having become such after only one night of quiet companionship.

“Joyce tonight?” The Baron asks, with something that might have been a smile, were his features not hardened by death.

Severus is not surprised that the volume in question is already lying open on the seat of his chair, nor is he surprised that a glass of brandy sits on the table nearby, waiting for his approval. The Baron cannot do these things himself, the professor knows- all but the troublesome poltergeist are unfortunately incapable of anything more than a gust of wind, or perhaps to knock some unfortunate object to the floor if it has been set upon the edge of a table.

“Peeves?” Severus asks by way of response as he sinks into his chair, humming his approval at the warmth that emanates from the fireplace.

The Baron laughs, a soft, rich sound despite the chill that accompanies it.

“A story for a story,” the professor says, crossing his legs and resting his interlaced fingers on one knee.

“I always found James Joyce to be a pedantic bore anyway,” the spirit replies with a slight smirk as he drifts toward the chair where Severus sits.

It is strange, Severus thinks, that The Baron has been such a constant in his life for so long, yet he knows almost nothing about the man as he once was, before death transformed him into the looming apparition that hovers in the air before him. He wonders if he is the only one who sees these spirits as something more than ghosts, who imagines the personalities that once may have been.

“If you won’t tell me about Peeves, then tell me something else,” he requests in a soft voice. Anything louder would sound almost obscene in this place, where silence and solitude are paramount.

The Baron seems to consider for a moment, as if Severus is asking him for the secrets that will unlock the universe, the answer to the unanswerable question that is mortality. At last, the spirit seems to relent.

“Oliver Tostand would pass notes to Paul Harkling when he thought you were not looking,” he says.

“I know,” Severus replies with a smirk.

“Why did you allow it to continue?” The Baron inquires, scandalized.

Severus looks away, staring into the fire, watching the embers glow and the bark curl as the flames leap and dance. It is an unanswerable question, really, but he is nothing if not persistent.

“Children, loathsome as they may be, are still children,” he whispers at length, and his mind betrays him with images of young faces, torn and bloodied by war- mud and ashes, his own private ghosts.

~*~*~

There is brandy and the fireplace glows red, but the room is warm tonight, and Severus feels something akin to disappointment.

~*~*~

“Moscow is beautiful in the Spring,” The Baron remarks as Severus enters the library, and the potions professor arches an eyebrow.

The apparition laughs again, and Severus pulls his robes more tightly around him even as some secret part of him delights in the chill that sweeps through the room. “The limits of mortal imagination never cease to amaze me,” The Baron admonishes as Severus takes a seat, “You should know better.”

“I suppose I should,” the professor responds quietly. He should. He doesn’t.

“Would it have been worthwhile…to have squeezed the universe into a ball and rolled it toward some overwhelming question?” The Baron quotes, drifting closer to where Severus sits. It is cold, colder now than it ever has been before, but he does not feel it in the same way.

“Elliot, then, is it?” Severus asks, staring up at the apparition before him.

“No,” The Baron says softly, “Harold von Demoir.”

~*~*~

“You know the answer,” Severus says before the door has even closed behind him. The question has been plaguing him since last they met, and he does not know why it should haunt him so, after so many years of the apparition’s refusal to speak on the matter.

“I know the question,” The Baron replies with a glare.

“Why is he afraid of you?” the professor demands, refusing to be deterred.

“Why are you afraid of the answer?” the spirit whispers, drawing so close that they are nearly touching.

“I don’t understand,” Severus admits, eyes narrowed with confusion.

The Baron sighs. “Neither did Sisyphus,” he says.

~*~*~

It is warm again tonight, and Severus does not drink the brandy that waits for him, does not sit in the chair. He paces, and he glares at nothing, and he thinks of smoke filled battlefields and the laughter of the dead.

~*~*~

It is cold, almost too cold to bear. He has fallen asleep in the wingback chair by the fireplace, the half empty decanter of brandy dangling precariously from his fingertips.

“Cold,” Severus murmurs, and ghostly fingertips trail down the length of his bare forearm, shirtsleeves unbuttoned to the elbow.

“Shall we speak of sinners and kings tonight?” The Baron whispers, translucent lips hovering above Severus’, “Or have you courage enough to ask me at last?”

Tears burn Severus’ eyes, and as cold lips touch his own, he finally understands, all at once, the answer and the question. He knows.

~*~*~

It is warm tonight, and Severus stares into the fire as the footsteps approach his chair.

“I know that he knows the answer,” a soft voice says, and a warm hand closes around Severus' shoulder, “And he should not.”

Severus nods. “Death’s most proud rebels, then, the both of us,” he murmurs, and the hand on his shoulder moves to his hair, stroking the silky black strands away from his face.

“Have you stopped asking, then?” The Baron inquires, kneeling at Severus’ feet and resting one slender hand on the unmarked flesh of the younger man’s forearm.

“No,” Severus says with a sincere smile, leaning forward to rest his forehead against The Baron's.

“You will,” the older man says, closing his fingers around Severus’ wrist and pulling him forward into an embrace, “In time.”

“I’ve never seen the shores of India,” Severus murmurs into the warm flesh of The Baron’s throat as the older man strokes two fingertips down his cheek.

“Then I will show you the world in a grain of sand, and eternity in an hour.”