Spinner's End; Three Little Words
Chapter One
The first time he saw her he had been peering through a small gap in the faded velveteen curtains that were permanently drawn across the small, dusty window that looked onto the cobbled street. She had been nothing but a blur of auburn hair and bottle green overcoat, striding past the window with sharp, steady footfalls. He had stepped back, letting the chink in the curtain fall closed, and returned to his work. He had not thought of her again.
The next time he saw her he was down by the river taking the morning air, such as it was. It wasn't so much that he missed the damp Scottish dawns, where moisture hung in the air and mist threaded round the ankles of anyone hardy enough to enjoy an early-morning circuit of the grounds. No, it was simply his habit before settling to a day steeped in learning, or teaching, or brewing, and he found that if he deviated from his favoured routine he invariably came down with a headache.
He stood at the water's edge, scanning the river to see what had been used to despoil it since the day before. An old bicycle, perhaps, or a shopping trolley; but no, today's Muggle offering to the god of vandalism was a stained mattress, half in, half out of the silty, slothful water. His mouth tightened in a moue of distaste and he turned away, intent on following the grassless trail back up the gentle slope that led to the road.
He had noted her unhurried approach, and when she was a few yards away had stepped aside onto the dew-soaked grass to let her pass. He had stared past her into the distance and did not acknowledge her murmured thanks, but from the corner of his eye he saw her look at him and smile as she spoke. He continued on his way and after a decent interval turned to watch her as she hurried along the path, over the small footbridge and out of sight.
He reached the footpath at the far end of the street, where the boarded-up corner shop gazed with unseeing eyes at the mill tower that pointed a reproachful finger at the neglectful sky. It was still early and he was alone, the only other sign of life the forlorn barking of a dog in the far distance.
He thought of her that afternoon as he sat in the tenebrous gloom of his dingy sitting room. Her coat had been of good quality and her demeanour was neither cowed nor brazen, polar opposite traits that seemed, mutually exclusively of course, to identify almost all the women that lived in this gods-forsaken hellhole.
She appeared completely out of place and he wondered what she was doing there. The same could be said of him, he supposed, and his eyes narrowed as he pondered various possibilities. Perhaps she had been sent to spy on him…but by which side, and to what end? He did not want to dismiss his suspicions as paranoid cabin fever too quickly; he could not afford the luxury of complacency.
It was almost certain that she was a Muggle, and after all she did not need to justify her presence in Spinner's End any more than did the slackjawed girls in pink hooded tops or the straggle haired women in faded leggings that stood gossiping on the corner on their way home from the local post office. Nevertheless, he would watch her closely from now on.
He became accustomed to her tread, sharp heels rapping on the aged cobbles as she traversed the street, and he would creep to the window and twitch the curtain aside, his long nose poking through the gap, waiting and watching. Her routine varied little and he deduced that she kept regular hours at whatever meagre employment this tired Northern town offered. He did not feel the need to follow her, although he could have done quite easily, but after a week of surreptitious observations he was confident enough of her habits to raise the stakes a little.
He had avoided the riverbank since their encounter. He did not want his impeccable manners to encourage her into conversation before he had judged the time to be right. From his limited knowledge he assumed that she was forthright, and since he was circumspect it was obvious, to him, that she would wish to take the initiative in any exchange. He needed to ensure that it would be him, not her, that decided the agenda for any discourse. He needed to assure himself that she was no threat, and that his cover was not compromised.
Thus it was that a fine sunny morning in August found him muttering a quiet "Scourgify!" before sitting on a dilapidated wooden form on a small tarmac area near to the footpath, his hands on his knees and a light breeze ruffling his hair and sending strands of it across his face. Passers-by would assume he was simply taking advantage of the clement weather and the unusually tidy riverbank, which had been cleaned up the day before by a local 'task force', and with any luck the woman would be amongst their number.
She did not disappoint. He heard her long before she stepped from the cobblestones on to the grass and came into view. She passed within feet of his bench and he raised his chin to her in greeting, assessing her impassively.
"Morning!" she smiled, and was gone before he could reply.
He did not go to sit on the form the following day. It might have looked suspicious. The day after that, she did not come. It then rained for three days straight and he cursed the vagaries of the English summertime.
In the mean time he brooded. He had expected to be called to the Dark Lord's side more frequently during the summer holidays, when it was common knowledge that the Hogwarts staff were encouraged to leave the school and pursue their own activities undisturbed. He had spent the last year consolidating his position in Voldemort's circle of Death Eaters, and considered that given time he would be able to re-establish himself as one of his most trusted lieutenants. The fact that he had been left mostly to his own devices was worrying. The woman was worrying, too.
Had not the Fates intervened, he might never have taken things further. Oh, he might have stepped up his surveillance by shadowing her and discovering her place of work. After making discreet enquiries, he might then have decided to follow her home. However, the most insignificant of events can have tremendous consequences, and thus it was that one stormy day, he stood at the window peering through the chink in the curtains at the rivulets that streamed down the pane, warping the cobbled vista beyond into a nightmarish undulation of stone and moss. The relentless drumming of the rain drowned out the sound of her footsteps and by the time he realised she was there, the dark green of her coat had sped past his window.
He watched as she crossed the road and began to descend the bank which, by now, would doubtless be treacherous underfoot. He turned away and dropped the curtain, but then heard a shrill cry, followed by an exclamation of pain. He stopped dead in his tracks and fisted his hands at his sides. It would only take a few moments to shrug on his greatcoat and leave the house. It was not as if he had never crossed the street and made for the river before, and she would not suspect him of watching for her. She would assume that he was about his usual business and had merely happened across her at the right time. Seconds later the door slammed shut behind him and he bowed his head against the persistent rain.
She had slipped a little way down the bank and now sat with her head bent, cradling her ankle in her hands. The back of her coat was caked in wet mud and it was apparent from the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.
He stopped several yards away and called, "Are you alright?"
She tried to turn towards him but the action made her move her leg and she winced.
"Damn!" she muttered, and then called, "No, I think I've twisted my ankle. I slipped on the mud."
"Evidently," he said dryly, and picked his way to her side. "Can you stand?" he asked, looking down at her.
"If I could stand, I wouldn't choose to remain here getting soaked through, would I?" she snapped. "Damn!"
He raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms across his chest.
"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "It really hurts, I don't think I'll be able to put any weight on it."
"Allow me," he said, reaching down for her hand while sliding his arm around her back. With one swift, easy movement she was upright, and she caught at his arms to take some of her weight.
"Ouch! Oh, what am I going to do now? I'll never get to work like this!"
"Ordinarily I would suggest that you rest on that bench over there so that I could examine your ankle and then seek assistance," he said, "But I fear that one or both of us would catch a severe chill, even if it is August."
He paused and looked into her eyes, probing her mind gently. She tensed a little and then winced, so he withdrew. He was almost certain that her reaction was due to pain, but it would not do to frighten her. Some Muggles were more aware of legilimency than others… if, indeed, she was Muggle. Here was a golden opportunity to find out.
"I live just over there," he said, nodding back to the dingy little end-of-terrace that was his sometime home. "I'm not in the habit of inviting vulnerable women into my home, but I assure you that I intend nothing more than to administer first aid and then call for a doctor."
She looked at him levelly. "And I assure you that I'm not in the habit of accepting such offers from strange men, either. But I can look after myself," she warned, "and besides…I think I can trust you."
He scoffed to himself, but simply nodded and secured his arm around her waist, turning her so that they could climb the slope back to the road.
She insisted on removing her muddy boots at his door, not an easy task since she was obviously in a good deal of pain. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance as he stooped to pull them off for her, irritated that he was reduced to this when a simple Scourgify always sufficed when he was alone. Leaving them on the mat, he grudgingly toed off his own and then peeled off his coat, gesturing for her to do the same. He laid them on the back of the worn red sofa, and took her arm to lead her round it so that he could help her sit down.
"Oh, thanks!" she said, flopping down unceremoniously and grabbing the one rather flat cushion to stuff behind her back. "I really appreciate this!"
He grunted non-committally. "I could hardly have left you out there for the rain to wash away."
She let out a short laugh, and fell silent. He did not need to see her face to know that she was looking around and taking in every detail of her surroundings. Lucky, then, that the darker volumes from his personal library were shelved upstairs behind a warded door, and that the lesser tomes crammed into the shelves that lined the room were, if not actually Muggle, charmed to appear so.
He moved into the sickly pool of light given off by the one standard lamp, and took the other end of the sofa.
"Here, lift your leg and let me see your ankle."
She obliged, and he frowned at the swelling he found there. A sprain, definitely, but he could see no sign of a fracture. He held her foot in his hand and moved it gently from side to side.
"Owww, that hurts," she complained.
"Not as much as it would if it were more badly damaged, or you would have passed out before now," he said dryly.
She glared at him. "I don't think a great deal of your bedside manner!"
"Really? A moment ago you were thanking me profusely," he observed, getting to his feet and crossing to a narrow door disguised as more shelves.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting you something for the pain."
"Oh, right. Thanks. And…a coffee would be nice?" she said hopefully. He turned and met her gaze, catching the hint of a smile in her eyes. He inclined his head slightly and picked up their coats.
"Coffee. Of course."
A few moments later he had used a drying charm on his coat and had cleaned and dried hers, draping it over the back of a chair in front of the stove in case she wondered how it had been dried out. By the time he had finished and the old tin kettle had come to a magically accelerated boil, he was itching to get back to the next room, to make sure she hadn't been prying.
She had not. She was still sitting exactly where he had left her. Silly of him to expect her to do anything else, since it was looking ever more likely that she was simply a Muggle.
"Here," he said shortly, passing her a china mug of steaming black coffee before sitting down in the wing chair opposite her.
She wrinkled her nose. "Got any milk?" she asked hopefully.
"I take mine black, and I rarely entertain," he replied, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers.
"Oh. Well, thanks anyway," she shrugged, taking a sip and grimacing at the bitter taste. He smirked, and before she could comment said,
"It isn't too strong for you, is it?"
She looked at him appraisingly for a moment before she answered, and her reply left him momentarily at a loss.
"It's dark and bitter, and I admit that it'll be a challenge, but I'm sure I can rise to the occasion."
It was only after she had finished her second mug that they both remembered he had not yet telephoned for the doctor.
Her name was Cass, he discovered.
"A seer's name?" he noted, looking her up and down as she hobbled along beside him and feeling gratified that she bore no resemblance to the so-called Seer that lived in Hogwart's worst-ventilated tower.
"Yes, I was christened Cassandra. Mum was into classical history."
"As was mine," he said carelessly, strangely pleased that he would be able to give her his true name with the minimum of fuss. "She called me 'Severus', after the Roman."
"Cool!" she grinned, and he allowed himself a wry smile.
The rain had stopped some time during their conversation and the sun was busily drying the pavements and shrinking the numerous puddles that had formed in the gutters and between the flags. He had retrieved an old walking stick from his cellar and she was managing quite well, although he had still offered his arm for support. She had not noticed the healing draught he had added to her second cup of coffee, thinking its bitter taste to be the blend he preferred, and had pronounced herself fit enough to attempt the short walk home. She promised she would call the doctor in the morning and he agreed, knowing that by then there would be no need.
He left her at her door and returned home, but only after she had extricated from him the promise that he would return the next evening for a simple dinner.
He rarely broke a promise. By no means could he be said to be a moral or an honourable man, for he had done far too many unforgivable things for those epithets to rest easy on his shoulders; however, he was an exacting man of regular habits, and if an arrangement was made, of whatever kind, he could be relied upon to keep to it.
He had been looking forward to dining with Cass. Accustomed to a solitary lifestyle, keen, indeed, to keep other people at a safe distance and shun anyone desiring a more personal entanglement, he nevertheless found himself anticipating an evening of interesting conversation with something akin to pleasure. Unfortunate, then, that he should be called to the Dark Lord's side late the following afternoon.
By the time he returned to Spinner's End the start of term was merely days away and he was in no mood to seek her out and explain. He owed her nothing, after all; the invitation to dinner had been made by way of reciprocation for his rescue, and as far as he was concerned the mere fact that she had made the offer was sufficient for him to consider the slate wiped clean. It was better that way, for both of their sakes.