Chapter 4:

A/N: The Grey Lady's dialogue is italicized because she's a ghost; her voice sounds more like a vapor.

Finola's robes flapped behind her like the wings of a broken, wheeling raven. She didn't know where she was going and didn't care. Fresh tears blinded her. What had she been thinking, pulling her wand on a teacher? That was probably as bad as a Muggle student pulling a gun. She'd lose her scholarship, probably be expelled, too. Worse, everyone would know she truly was a damaged little idiot.

A stitch in her side overcame her, and she fell headlong on the castle floor. She didn't bother trying to get up this time. Maybe down on the floor was where people like her belonged.

"No. It most certainly is not."

Finola's head jerked up. "Who said that?"

The woman from the Great Hall, the ghost, floated down toward her. What had Holly called her? The Grey Lady, that's right. But if the Grey Lady was a ghost, surely she'd come for revenge. At least it wasn't the Slytherin ghost, who'd probably kill her on the spot for what she'd done.

"No, Finola Frost. Don't be afraid."

"W-what are you doing here?" Finola managed.

The Grey Lady gently pushed Finola to a sitting position, raising her chin to meet her ghostly visage. "One of my ravens is hurt, my child. Of course I'm here."

"Then you know what happened. You know what a horrible thing I did, and that Dumbledore's gonna kick me out."

"Oh, I wouldn't count on that."

Another female voice, but far less ethereal, wafted from…a portrait? Finola looked up, meeting penetrating, yet compassionate green eyes. Green eyes and red hair, just like…

"It's you! You were my an—I mean, I met you before."

"Yes you did, and you may call me Lily. Helena?"

The Grey Lady seemed to conjure something out of the air, a clear vial fashioned from what looked like diamonds. When Finola recognized what she was doing, she put her hand to her cheek. "Why are you…"

"To remind you of Someone else who counts your tears," Lily said, pointing upward. "And it will help us explain things to Severus."

Finola sniffed. "No one can explain anything to him. I thought…in the books, he was a tyrant at first. A real sadist. But then he seemed so sympathetic, I knew there was good in him. I just knew. But…"

"You feel betrayed," Lily finished. Her kind emerald eyes grew sad. "Yes, Severus made me feel the same way once."

"When he called you a…a…the M word," Finola said, loathe to use what in the Wizarding World counted as a racial or ethnic slur. "But he didn't mean it, not really. He was just—but with me, I think he meant it. He thinks I'm a liar and a manipulator, and if he thinks so, the other teachers might, too. And I wanted so badly to do well here."

"You will," the Grey Lady assured her.

"Yes," Lily agreed. "Your first instincts about Severus were right, Finola. Give him a chance. More important, give yourself a chance. The Grey Lady and I, your friends, Minister Granger-Weasley, we're all rooting for you."

"I might get expelled," Finola warned them.

"Don't borrow trouble, little bird," encouraged the Grey Lady. "Let's get you back to the Ravenclaw Common Room. You need time to wash your face and prepare for what comes next."

What came next? The very idea made Finola so ill she actually leaned over and retched, but nothing came up. The Grey Lady just draped her in a comforting vapor and led her back to the common room door.

"Ah, Finola Frost," the eagle knocker said. "Time for your first riddle. I cry, but I shed no tears. What am I?"

"You're a broken heart," Finola murmured.

"Correct. You may enter."

Finola did so, and lay face down on one of the sofas. "A broken, shattered, decimated to a pulp, heart."

Finola must've slept, because the next thing she was conscious of was a voice. "Come on, baby girl. Wake up. I'll get you to the hospital wing if you need it."

Finola jumped. "Professor Swanson!" She didn't need a mirror to know she was a mess. Professor Swanson would probably take points for her untidy appearance. Hurriedly, she fumbled with her tie and tried to smooth down her hair.

"Hey, relax. I've got this." Professor Swanson took out a wand and waved it. "Spit and Polish." She chuckled. "In the good old USA, we don't bother with that Latin stuff. You're Finola, right? The other American at Hogwarts."

"Not for long," Finola said. She plopped back onto the couch. "This morning was just awful. I cried in front of everyone in Potions, and I hate crying, but I couldn't help it. I just felt so stupid and helpless. And I didn't mean to pull my wand on Professor Snape, honest. I thought he was gonna grab me, and I got scared."

"Yeah, I know. Lily Corrigan from Hufflepuff filled me in. I came down here worried when you didn't show for Charms class. I've read your files, and that's not like you. Your Muggle teachers all say you're a brilliant, conscientious, respectful young lady."

"Yeah, well, Hogwarts teachers are gonna call me a retarded troublemaker."

Now it was Professor Swanson's turn to point her wand, though not the business end. "Okay, baby girl, listen here. I don't want to hear the R word out of your mouth again, especially when describing yourself. I don't know how it is around Hogwarts, but at Ilvermorny, that counts as an ableist slur and I don't tolerate slurs."

"Tell that to Professor Snape. He called me r—I mean, that name—in front of everyone. He said I was a liar and manipulator, and that my cognitive age didn't match my chronological one."

At that, Professor Swanson's mouth went from reassuring smile to irritated slash. Her eyes darkened from bluish-green to cobalt with little jade flecks. She shook her head. "Hoo boy. As my mama would've said, that man's got a mouth worse than a whole ship of sailors."

Finola had to chuckle, though the sound was mirthless. "Your mom sounds like my grandma. She talks like that. You didn't grow up near Hollyhock Village, did you?"

She put her finger to her lips. "As a pureblood, I can't disclose that. But I can tell you a few things. One, my mama was from the American South. Two, my dad was a New Yorker. I've got the best of both in me, which means I am more than equipped to deal with one Severus Snape."

"I'm not sure about that. He'll eat you alive."

"Trust me on this." Professor Swanson winked. "Let me do some damage control. In the meantime, you take a breather. Stay here until I come and get you. And remember, Finola—your name is the only way people can define you. You're not what he said, and you're every bit who you want to be." She stood up.

"Don't worry, kid. You're gonna be all right."

Headmaster's Office

"She pulled her wand on you?" Dumbledore repeated.

Severus sighed. "Yes, but it was more than that. She called me evil." The moment he said it, he wanted to Crucio himself. He sounded like the petty schoolboy Dumbledore said he wasn't, but always seemed to treat him as. Still… He barely managed a tight grip on his emotions.

It wasn't the name. In his years of teaching, students had called Severus Snape evil and worse, most names laced with some form of profanity. And since that night in the Shrieking Shack, when Severus had been given his second chance, he'd also stopped aging, as part of the deal. Thus, he was now stuck in his late thirties, facing down potential decades of more students calling him evil, the greasy git of the dungeons, dungeon bat, and who knew what all. No, he could cope with "evil."

But the way she'd said it, with more confidence than he'd known the little witch possessed, with such knowing in those bespectacled eyes. As if she could read his soul. He snorted. Being a Christian, she probably thought she could. He'd half expected her to call down fire and thunder on him by the power of her God, if he believed in such, which he most assuredly did not. Yet that offered him little comfort. The way Finola Frost had called him evil, it was as if she knew, down to her bones, the truth he barely let himself whisper in the night. As if she knew…it was true.

Dumbledore waved toward a chair opposite his desk. "Sherbert lemon? If anyone deserves one, it's you."

"No, thank you." Severus kept his tone measured, but icy. "I'd prefer to keep my teeth in my head." And his faculties. Dumbledore could deny it from now to Doomsday, but the lacing of his sweets with Veritaserum was an open secret at Hogwarts. Thank Merlin for Severus' accomplished Occlumency abilities…but a vulnerable first year like Finola Frost wouldn't stand a chance. And why in the good name of Merlin do I care?

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Threatening a professor is a serious offense. In these times, it warrants expulsion."

Severus clenched his jaw so hard his teeth scraped against each other. Not so long ago, he'd have gunned for that very thing. But for Dumbledore to say such about his new Wonder Witch? His weapon, if indeed that's what she was? What was the old man playing at? Well, one way to find out. He studied Dumbledore from under his lids, using every ounce of Legillimency training he possessed.

Gifted, yes…one of the Gifted. Hogwarts needs her if the rumors of this new enemy are true. But she's replaceable, particularly if she's trouble.

Heat radiated through Severus' core. Replaceable, was she? And as he feared, Finola Frost was walking directly into a chess game. Sick, deceptive moron, Severus seethed. He couldn't let this happen again. And yet, without good reason, he couldn't disagree with Dumbledore, not without raising suspicions. A quick look at the headmaster revealed a subtle sparkle behind that regretful mask. He'd trapped Severus again and knew it. Check. Severus swore.

The air in the headmaster's office suddenly went frigid, just before the Ravenclaw house ghost swept in. Behind her came Monica Swanson, black, calf-length skirt swishing behind her, sparkling blue sweater making her look like a bubbly university student. But her posture and expression said she was here to kill if necessary.

"Headmaster, I am sorry to interrupt," Swasnon began, "but I was just in my common room. I found one of my ravens crumpled on the couch, all to pieces over Potions class, thinking she's gonna get expelled."

"Perhaps you'll change your tune when you hear what happened," Severus warned.

Swanson's gaze impaled him. "I already got the scoop from several students. Heck, some kid with one of those darn smartphones videoed the whole thing. Severus, for crying out loud, the girl's got a disability, and is a raging perfectionist to boot. Did you have to make a federal case over her messing up a cure for boils potion?"

"I will make a 'federal case' of what I please, Professor Swanson. Laziness and manipulation deserve punishment."

"If that's even what it was, which I'm sure it wasn't. The way I hear it, you called her names, including "retarded," in front of your entire class, drove her to tears, and then kicked her out."

Albus' eyebrows lifted. "Severus. Is this true?"

"I merely made it clear I expected Frost to accept the truth, that she uses her disability as an excuse and crutch, and that she has lied…" Severus broke off. It was an excuse, it was weak, and it tasted sour in his mouth.

"That was mean, Severus."

Severus whipped toward the Grey Lady. Though the ghost's mouth moved, it wasn't her voice. It was Lily's. Little, nine-year-old Lily, scolding Severus for insulting her prig of a sister.

"Lily." Severus mouthed the word. His memories catapulted him back to the night Nagini almost sent him to his death. How he'd ached for Lily's forgiveness, for a second chance. He'd received both, but now, was his dearest friend, only love, warning him again? Could he possibly have misjudged the Frost girl?

"Headmaster. Professor Snape. With your permission?" The Grey Lady offered a vial. Severus held in a flinch at what it surely contained. Tears. The Frost girl's tears, which he had caused.

"We haven't time for the Pensieve just now," Dumbledore insisted. "I'll have to owl the Ministry right away and—"

"Not yet, sir," Severus interrupted. "I'd like to see her memories."

"Severus, my boy, I fail to understand…"

"Then perhaps you can wait until I understand." Severus laced his tone with warning. "After all, it's not as if the girl knew any spells. The worst she might have done was mangle an incantation or two."

"All right," Dumbledore conceded. "But do make this quick. I refuse to let Finola Frost stew all day."

Inside the Pensieve

Had Severus not been upright, the shock of what the Pensieve revealed would've bowled him over.

As if it knew the issue at hand, the first thing it revealed was a memory of Frost at about nine, in Muggle school. Her teacher was leading a mathematical unit on measurements and basic geometric work, asking students to do things like use rulers and manipulate protractors. Frost had a scribe to help her with the written work, but with the Pensieve, Severus literally saw those measurements through her eyes. Or rather, didn't.

The tiny lines on the ruler, and the ones in the geometric figures, blurred and jumped in front of him. Nothing made sense. And his head…oh, his head throbbed as if he'd drunk a gallon of Firewhiskey. Realization, and regret, stabbed the professor's heart. Frost wasn't being defiant or lazy. The issue was not that she wouldn't brew a potion correctly. She simply couldn't.

Other memories added to the truth. Memories of clumsy fingers and aching hands. Persistent headaches, even with spectacles. Memories of spending recess and lunch alone every day, buried in a book, because classmates wouldn't go near her—except to touch her on a dare, then run off and give other people "retard cooties." Memories of missing school to walk up and down halls in neurological and physical clinics, or to be evaluated ad nauseam. Memories of painful braces, muscle-loosening injections, terrible mathematics grades, and discipline for those grades that, while fair and not abusive, was certainly undeserved.

Searching for vindication, Severus probed every tear, every moment, hoping Frost told her parents how she felt about the endless tests and therapy sessions, or that she reported the bullying. He found some, but they only worsened matters. He forced himself to listen in on conversations—

"Why do I have to miss school again? I like school! It's a lot better than this stupid therapy!"

"Finola, get in the car. We have talked and talked about this. Without therapy, you won't be independent. Look at you, eight years old and you can't even tie your shoes."

"So? That's what slip-ons are for."

"Slip-ons are a crutch. You need to learn this stuff. Mom and I won't always be there to help you."

HPHPHP….

"You filled the whole week with therapy and doctors' appointments? But that's my entire spring break!"

"I know honey, and I'm sorry, but it was the only time we could get off work. You know how long the drive to the clinic takes."

"They're just going to say the same thing they always do. I'll never be cured of cerebral palsy, so why bother with this?"

Oftentimes, Severus observed, this led to full arguments, especially as Finola grew older and could assert herself more. Those arguments usually devolved into yelling, tears, and disciplinary action—spanking, confiscated novels, cancellation of fun outings, what have you. According to some of Finola's memories, she'd learned that sticking up for herself equaled making trouble, so even when she should, she learned not to do it.

But none of that was the worst. Severus could only stand by, disgusted with himself, while his newest student endured verbal lashings from students and teachers alike.

"Freak!"

"Retard!"

"She's such a snob, thinks she's better than us."

"Finola Frost. What a stupid, retard name."

"Stop crying over a math worksheet. Get out in the hallway. You get an F the rest of the day."

"If your printer doesn't work, it means you are not prepared for the day. Go sit in the corner."

"Mr. and Mrs. Frost, I believe Finola is lying and manipulating to get out of doing work. How can she read books if she can't see mathematical operations?"

"Finola, everyone else can do this. You're not even trying."

"I'm going to start making you do this. There's no excuse…"

Severus yanked his head from the Pensieve and collapsed into the chair Dumbledore offered earlier.

At least the girl had loving parents to offset all this torment. That was more than he could say for some students. Mrs. Frost in particular, some sort of school trustee, had stuck up for her daughter on more than one occasion. Despite their foibles and blind spots in dealing with their daughter's disability, Severus was confident they'd never purposely hurt her. The corporal punishment, he heartily disapproved of, but then, some parents felt it was their right. At least the Frosts hadn't done it often, or hard. The girl never had a mark on her. And yet, to be talked to the way she was, to have cerebral palsy take precedence over what she could do well, to be disciplined over seemingly every little thing… Severus sighed. If verbal abuse resulted in scars, Finola Frost would be an utter mess.

And magic? Severus snorted to himself. She barely used it, even accidentally, having been told such things were for make-believe and stories. One crucial memory showed a Sunday school teacher warning her that any talk of magic indicated an interest in the occult. "And God hates witches and sorcerers," she'd said. Blasted, self-righteous Muggle. If God hated Finola Frost, who clearly loved whoever that was with her whole heart, then the universe was in deep trouble.

And then what does her first magical teacher do, Severus mused, but add to it.

"Then make it right." Lily's voice again.

"Expulsion is off the table," he informed Dumbledore, in the voice that made first years, heck even some seventh years, quake in their shoes. "What is on the table is an inter-house meeting. I'd like all the heads of house to come here at once."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "Perhaps as they will all be her professors, they should each have a say in the punishment Finola Frost deserves."

"Let's not be premature," Severus cautioned. "But yes. What the girl deserves from us warrants serious discussion."

Later…

In what seemed a blink, Professor Swanson was back, sitting next to Finola in the common room.

"The headmaster will see you now," she said. "Professors Snape, McGonagall, and Longbottom are there, too."

Finola's head was suddenly so light she feared it would pop off her shoulders. All the professors? Had they decided throwing the book at her would be more effective if they did it together? What, they were gonna let Dumbledore snap her wand and each take a twig?

"You'll be fine," Swanson coached. "I'll be there with you."

Finola pulled herself to full height. Enough fretting and crying. From this day forward, tears were taboo. She deserved her punishment and darn it, she'd take it like a woman. Even if right now, she felt as vulnerable as a three-year-old and all she wanted was her mother. She stood next to Swanson. "Okay, let's go, then."

"Miss Frost," Dumbledore greeted when she and Flitwick entered the office. "Come in. Sherbert lemon, my dear?"

"No, no thanks." Finola's voice hardly worked. Why the heck was the man offering her candy? Why didn't he just get it over with? Well, if he wouldn't, she would. She turned toward Professor Snape.

"Sir, I know it won't mean anything. But I am sorry about Potions class. I never should've called you evil or pulled my wand. I don't know what came over me, but that's no excuse." She clenched her left hand over her right to keep it from shaking, then offered her wand to Dumbledore. "Sir."

Dumbledore stared down at her, eyes unreadable. "Miss Frost, why are you offering me your wand?"

Oh, what was it with this guy and letting her dangle? "Aren't you going to, you know, snap it?"

The room went dead silent for so long, Finola dared look around. Professor Longbottom, a guy with a cardigan and warm brown eyes, looked like somebody just ran his kitten over. Professor McGonagall's eyes were wide, her mouth an O. Professor Swanson was beaming—what was she, nuts? And Snape…

Professor Snape's eyes remained inscrutable, face set in granite lines. Oh, maybe he wanted to do the honors. Finola offered him the wand.

"Put that away, Miss Frost." Though authoritarian, Snape's voice now carried an evenness, perhaps mercy, she hadn't known he possessed. Finola obeyed, thoroughly confused.

"Sit down," Snape continued. Once she had, he sat as well, turning his chair to face her. What the heck?

As Finola watched, her professor's face actually softened. "I appreciate your apology and…your honesty," he said after a pause. "But the truth is, it's I who owe you an apology. In a way, we all do. This never would've happened if some of us had used our heads."

"Severus," Dumbledore warned. But the professor held up a hand.

"Let me finish, Albus. It happened in my classroom and is therefore my responsibility." Snape returned his attention to Finola.

"Frost, certain—developments have occurred in the last while. Some—friends were kind enough to inform me of things I did not see this morning." His voice, and head, dropped a bit. "Did not want to see."

"That's okay," Finola said now. "A lot of people think…"

"No, it is not okay. It is never okay for someone to judge you without knowing you, particularly if the one doing the judging is a teacher who should know better. What I said was not okay, and none of it was true. I know it may be impossible, but forget you ever heard it."

Finola pulled in a breath. Snape's voice vibrated with sincerity, and yet…

"You humiliated me," she couldn't help saying. "I tried to tell you what I needed and you wouldn't listen. This has happened so many times…" She broke off and started over. "Professor Snape, I know you've only known me for like, three hours and I didn't make the best first impression. But please believe I'm not manipulating anyone. I only want to do well, to fit in here. And you—you told me I couldn't. I can't just forget."

Snape scowled then, and Finola braced herself for another tirade. But instead, the dark-clad professor with the midnight black demeanor only nodded.

"I can accept that. I can't go back and undo it. And I warn you Frost, I am not an easy instructor. By the end of term, you'll probably still despise Potions and you may despise me. But I can promise you, from now on, you and I will deal only in truth. As in, I will approach you as the blisteringly intelligent, capable student you truly are—and you are to approach me with respect, but as a student, not a quavering mouse, and tell the truth of what you need."

Finola must've looked confused, because Professor Swanson leaned forward. "I think what the guy's asking for here is forgiveness. A clean slate."

Finola gaped. "Um, with every ounce of due respect, who are you and what did you do with Professor Snape?"

That shattered the ice. The entire room cracked up. Dumbledore, in fact, looked ready to fall off his chair. Professor McGonagall came over and swept Finola into a hug.

"I've waited years for someone to stand up to that man," she whispered in Finola's ear. "I had a hunch it'd be someone like you."

"All right, enough silliness." Snape's voice slashed through the air like a sword. "Frost?" He held out a hand, and Finola met her teacher's eyes again. This time, they weren't dead or serpentine, but serious. Weary. On edge. Finola's heart actually squeezed. When had Severus Snape ever asked forgiveness, and how could she say no? She shook his hand, using the firmest grip she could.

"Deal. By the way, I'm Finola Frost. It's nice to meet you."

Her teacher actually smiled. "And I am your Potions instructor, Professor Snape. I've heard several things about you, notably that you may need assistance getting along in class. So I expect nothing less than total honesty when I ask—how can I, and we, help you?"

Finola blushed from her hairline to her toes, unsure at first. No teacher had ever asked her such a question. Usually, everybody told her what she needed or deserved and expected her to toe the line. But now, she found herself sitting in Dumbledore's office, spilling her guts about eleven years of navigating the educational system with invisible, yet undeniable, physical difficulties. Dumbledore offered her sherbert lemons every now and then, but the more she talked, the drier her mouth became.

"I think our young lady might prefer a nice cuppa," McGonagall finally said in a soft Scottish burr, conjuring one out of the air. "Milk and sugar—I know most children your age aren't yet up to the real stuff."

"Thank you, ma'am. And, um, thank you all. I'm so, so sorry to have taken up your time and missed my classes. And Professor Snape, if you still want me to serve detention or something, I'll do that."

"Do not apologize, Frost," Snape commanded. "Apologies are for transgressions, and you have already punished yourself enough for the one you did commit. Besides, I doubt sorting potion ingredients or scrubbing cauldrons in my classroom would truly get anything done."

Finola blushed again. "Yeah, I probably couldn't get those cauldrons as clean as you'd like."

Snape had to laugh then, perhaps his first real laugh in a while. He couldn't help it. Somehow, this little dynamo saw right down to his bones. "Indeed. As for your classes, you haven't missed too much. Only Charms, and I'm sure Professor Swanson would be amenable to a make-up."

"Of course," Swanson agreed. "Study hall tonight, in my classroom?"

"Okay."

Dumbledore stood then, businesslike expression firmly back in place. "I'm so glad this turned out well for everyone. Miss Frost, fear no longer. You will find that here, you'll have ample opportunity to use your gifts, however they may manifest themselves. But for now, I think we all have work to get back to. Miss Frost, I do believe Transfiguration is next on your schedule. Meeting adjourned."

Finola left the headmaster's office feeling pounds lighter, as if she could perform Wingardium Leviosa on herself had she the inclination – which she didn't. Her parents, pastor, and Sunday school teachers had always taught her to believe in mercy, but much as she tried to extend it to others, she'd never felt she deserved any herself. But today…

An iron grip around her elbow stopped her cold. Her first instinct was to pull away, but she found she couldn't. Dumbledore glowered down at her, all grandfatherly elements gone from his face.

"That was a warning, Frost. You may be a gifted witch, but you are not the Child-Who-Lived, nor are you infallible. If I ever hear of anything like what you did to Snape happening again, you'll find your wand snapped and yourself trapped in our world forever, in a place where you'll never see the light of day again. Am I clear?"

"I…I…" Finola could only nod.

"Good." Dumbledore brandished his wand at her. "Obliviate!"

Finola blinked, surprised to find the kindly headmaster patting her on the shoulder. "It's all right, dear. Go on, you don't want to be late. Oh, and I've personally enchanted the staircases so they'll stay in place when you need them."

"Thank you," Finola murmured as the headmaster left. She shook her head. He'd been so kind to her, kinder than she deserved. And yet she couldn't shake the idea that something was terribly, horribly, irrevocably wrong. Perhaps he was just more upset about Snape than she thought. Yeah, that must be it. She hurried toward the east wing and Transfiguration.

A/N: Please read and review. For those of you wondering where Lupin is, no worries! You'll see him next chapter, and it's gonna be good!