Lyrica stood upon the gallery between the owlery and the Astronomy tower. A breeze drifted through the open windows, brushing across fine wisps of her chestnut hair, irritating the scar upon her cheek. Lyrica's hand pushed away the annoying strands, but lingered upon the tell-tale scar. Of all her scars, this small, pale reminder, was the most visible. Ebenezer Arcahnum had, until that moment, never struck her face. The man had preferred to use his hands, but there were times, though few and far between, when he'd used the Cruciatus curse to emphasize a point. Her dismissal from the Enchanter apprenticeship had been one of those times. Though never forgotten, the scar that shamed her the most was the last one she'd received; the pale, crescent upon her cheek.

Glancing down into the courtyard below, she caught sight of a familiar figure. Severus Snape, tall and elegant, the breeze giving an added drama to his robes. Lyrica smiled lightly, wondering if he was aware of the supernatural figure he cut in his black robes, defined features, dark hair, and those billowing robes.

The headmistress continued to watch the curious man from the future as he made his way to the edge of the courtyard and seated himself beneath a tree. He was partly obscured by the branches and the last of the leaves that clung tenaciously to their branches. He brushed an errant lock of his hair from his forehead and glanced away just as two students, obviously late for class, ran across in front of him. Lyrica only realized how intently she was studying him, when his gaze rose up toward the gallery where she stood. The surety of his obsidian eyes startled her, but she drew closer to the window where she stood. Allowing him to see her. He did not smile, but she understood he was pleased to know that it was her that watched him. And that pleased her.

Severus Snape was aware of being watched the moment he had strolled onto the courtyard. Although it was quiet, no doubt due to classes being in session, his original intention had been to continue his walk. However, he was curious about his unseen observer and so he chose to sit down upon one of the many stone benches that outlined the courtyard. He would be partly hidden by the branches of the tree that stretched above his head. It was a subtle way of drawing out his observer, causing whomever it was to expose their hiding place.

There were many places above the courtyard for one to observe the goings on below. He had employed such niches in his own patrols throughout Hogwarts. Such subtlety gave rise to rumors that the potions professor was a vampire, or a ghost. Passing through the corridors via the shadows, knowing where to conceal oneself in order to listen in upon students who thought they were pulling something over their teachers eyes, and intelligence, wasn't a game to him. It was the way he'd learned to survive.

These skills were beyond skills; they had become as second nature to him as breathing. The closing off of his emotions, the protection of his mind, these were disciplines that had become survival instinct. As he brushed the lock of hair from his forehead, the gesture allowed him to see a sparkle in the upper gallery between the owlery and the Astronomy tower. His observer was closer to the owlery. Perhaps they had stopped on their way to sending a letter. He ignored the two students that ran past, obviously late to class. He now raised his gaze to where he'd seen the tell-tale shine. Either his observer would run off as soon as they realized they had been caught or...

There she was. The headmistress. He could not make out her features, but he was very familiar with her bearing and the green robes that she had worn when first they'd met. Her robes were fastened at the neck by a silver snake. No doubt the jewelry glinting in the afternoon sunlight had given away her position. Although his expression did not betray him, he was pleased to see her. Rising from the bench, he gave a nod of his head.

Fifteen minutes later, Severus Snape was striding down the gallery toward the headmistress. As soon as he had left the courtyard, she'd seated herself upon a wooden bench and began reading a small, slim book. When she was aware of the approaching potions master, she stopped reading, but kept her eyes upon the page.

"May I join you?" Lyrica shifted slightly on the bench to make room for him. He seated himself beside her. The bench was narrow in its width and so he was very close to her. "Your book seems to have your full attention."

"It is a very good book. A favorite of mine." Slipping in a simple ribbon as a bookmark, she closed the book and handed it to him.

"The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, gentleman by Washington Irving. Which story were you reading?" Snape examined the well worn book, envious of the volume that was only to be found in his time as a collector's item.

"The Spectre Bridegroom," as she said the title of the romantic story, her cheeks became tinged with the color of rose.

The pale crescent of the scar was stark against the blush. Snape raised a finger to touch the scar very lightly. Lyrica caught his hand in hers, brought his hand down to her lap and squeezed his fingers tightly as though she were afraid to follow her instinct of reducing physical contact. "Tell me about that scar," he whispered gently.

Lyrica did not look at him, but she continued her grip upon his fingers. If he felt any pain from the grip, he did not show it. "My father's last gift to show his displeasure. I dared to disagree with him... selling me to the son of Phineas Nigellus Black."

With his free hand, Snape ran a finger down the length of his crooked nose. "My father showed no such restraint."

Lyrica's grip on Snape's hand relaxed a little bit as she looked up at his face. "A father should treasure a son; he is the family line."

"A father should treasure his daughter for in her is life." His sharp tone was for the father that had so thoroughly denied his only child. "No child deserves the parents we had. Yet it seems we remember them with the scars they left us. Foolish, is it not?" He gave the headmistress a grim smile.

"It is entirely foolish, Severus. But will you deal yet with your scars?" She smiled at him and her grip upon his hand completely relaxed. A slight shifting and he had a better grasp upon her hand.

"My broken nose appears to serve my countenance well in class, so for now, I shall leave it."

"Severus, could you answer some questions about yourself?"

"Perhaps," he spoke with some little suspicion, which she picked up.

She held up her other hand placatingly. "Only answer if you can. If you cannot, then I shall not press the matter. My questions are, merely, about you. How long have you been teaching potions?"

"A little more than a decade." He could have been more precise, but where their future was concerned, it was best to be vague. Lyrica accepted that answer.

"Was teaching what you always wanted for your life?"

Snape sighed heavily. He wanted to answer Lyrica's questions, and they seemed such simple questions. They weren't, though. He knew that what she desired was beyond simple questions. "Lyrica," he began, the pain evident in his baritone. "I cannot..."

She interrupted him as she turned further to face him. "I am a bumbling school girl, Severus, and for that you must forgive me. I know that your future is a commodity that you must safeguard beyond your own gain. I am not asking you to give me anything you are unable to give. What I do ask is that you allow me to be your friend. Allow me to know you as the man you are now. Would that be possible?"

He touched her cheek, briefly. "Perhaps if we proceed as though my past began three weeks ago and that I may leave at any time... would you agree to that?" She nodded and smiled. "Then... all things are possible."