Part 8 : A Dream, Dream, No Dream

-A dream, dream, no dream
Voices of the night-if you should cross over the forest-
A dream, dream, no dream
Goodnight, my good child.-

key the metal idol "lullaby"

She is kneeling at the back of the church, conspicuous in her bright red cloak. Her hands are clasped tightly, the nails leaving bloody crescents on the pale skin of her hands. Two new candles have been lit; one for her father, the other for her sister. The melting wax flows down them and leaves fat droplets on the white alter cloth. There is no candle for her mother, furiously wasting away in Azkaban and Charles will have plenty of his own fire in Hell.

Her lips move silently through a prayer for mercy, then a prayer for the repose of restless souls. She asks for nothing for herself.

There is movement at the front of the church and two men enter, faceless in long dark cloaks. They walk rapidly towards the kneeling girl and their feet are silent on the stone because they are very good at what they do.

She still doesn't know what made her turn around and look.

"Thanks for being so convenient, yer Ladyship," one says in a coarse, sniggering voice. He raises his wand. "Now, just hold still..."

"Oi! Little Red Riding Hood! Slow down and wait for us!" one of the men calls, his voice strong with mockery, despite the wheezing breaths she can him take. His companion jogs alongside him grimly.

The girl leads them into the forest that borders the town, jumping fallen trees and ruts in the ground. Her brand new wand is still hidden in her sleeve and she has neither the time to yank it out or enough skill with it to save her life. She runs on, heels sliding backwards into the soft earth with every step.

"Bloody fuck she's fast! Like a goddamn rabbit! Bitch! Be good and stop and I might be easy on you! Not quick but easy!" the loud one calls again, and she is glad he has decided to waste his energy on boasting. It will slow him down in the long run.

"She chose a bad path," the quiet one says flatly. He speaks little and his footsteps are gaining.

The girl reaches for her neck and tears at the bright red cloth of her cloak. It rips, and falls slack on her shoulders. The girl flings it away into the underbrush beyond. In her dark dress, she will be that much harder to spot. A large tree has fallen into her path; she puts a hand on it and vaults over, too frightened to be short of breath. The rough bark slices her skin and blood pools in her palm.

"Why'd you say that?" pants the loud one to his companion. His steps are stumbling and uneven.

"Lake Salamander is ahead and she's running straight into it."

The heavy one throws back his head and laughs despite his gasping breaths for air. Lake Salamander is a large pool fed by two rapid streams, deep and full of fast-running currents.

There is light ahead and the girl pulls forward grimly, one arm pressed to her side. She finds enough energy for an extra burst of speed, charges ahead and skids to a stop, pebbles flinging themselves before her. She stares at the black water as the pebbles disappear with small plopping sounds.

The men walk into the clearing, calmly, slowly. She watches them and steps backward, too scared to be proud.

"Too much trouble," the heavy one says, shaking his head in a slow parody of sorrow. "I should get a bonus for this." He lifts his wand, points it straight at her heart. "Avada..."

Before he can finish, the ground beneath the girl's feet slides, disintegrates into a shower of rock, and with a shriek she tumbles into the water below. There is a large splash and then the water ripples, becomes quiet once more.

The men study the water silently. Five, ten, then fifteen minutes pass with no sign of any movement through the water below. The quiet one walks over, checks the tributary rivers to see if she had come out that way. She has not.

"I'd say she's pretty well dead by now," the heavy man says dryly after twenty minutes have passed, scratching an armpit. His companion nods in agreement.

"There's snakeweed at this bottom of this lake." He nudges a few more pebbles into the water. "It wraps itself around anything unlucky enough to get in it's way, holds it down. You do realise though, that we're going to have to salvage her body for proof."

"Bugger that," the heavy one says and spits into the lake.

Lilika woke then, heart beating a frantic tattoo between her ribs. She lay staring into the darkness for several seconds, one hand resting on her breasts, as she breathed harshly into the silence of her room. A short debate about what to do went through her mind; options were weighed, analysed and discarded while she lay unmoving, her chest weighted as though something crouched on top of it.

One by one, each option was discarded until Lilika was left with the only solution she knew she could handle under the circumstances. Acknowledging this (she was nothing if not sensible) she calmly grabbed her pillow, regarded it for a moment with a critical eye, then pressed it firmly over her face and began screaming.

It went on for quite a long while.

Once done, she removed the pillow and flipped over on her stomach, burying her face in her arms, ears pricked for any sort of sign that the Grey Lady or the rest of Ravenclaw had heard her cries. There was a soft, faint creak from outside and she froze, holding her breath until she was certain no one was coming to challenge her or worse, be concerned.

"These nightmares are getting clearer and clearer and worse and worse," she whispered into her pillow; it was sweaty now and sticky from her screams. The muffled edge of her voice still sounded very loud and conspicuous despite the protective padding of her arms and bedding. "I really don't want to do this...but I can't take this much longer." Lilika sighed through pursed lips and rolled onto her back once more; traced the cracks of the ceilings with her eyes.

"I'll go see him tomorrow."

The Slytherins slept heavily and for the most part peacefully within the thick grey walls of their dungeons. Professor Snape had finally gone to sleep after a night of grading Potions essays; turning in the middle of his restless dreams, he called out a name. Two seventh years slipped back into their bedrooms after an assignation, tiptoeing and giggling with relief that they had managed to avoid the Bloody Baron who was busily stalking the corridors, his lank robes dragging behind him, in his nightly pursuit of wayward students. In the common room, the fireplace sputtered once and went out. The dungeons had slipped completely into darkness.

Everything was as it should be. Everyone quiet, everything serene, all in bed.

Except two.

Down at the end of the longest, darkest corridor, two slender figures crouched, faintly outlined in the darkness by the same pale light given off by ghosts and hags. One held a glass bottle in a pale, clenched fist whilst the other smiled and stroked the shiny surface of the glass with a loving finger, eyes intent on the creature trapped inside. His touch left a milky swirl on the clean surface.

"Alright," he said, straightening out of his crouch. "Let it out."

His companion hesitated, and with a smirk the figure reached out as if to snatch the bottle away from the other. The boy holding the bottle half-turned, clutching it protectively to his chest. "Don't!"

"Just what are you afraid of?" the first boy sneered, tugging on the other's arm. "It's only a baby-it can't do any serious damage until it's eaten enough energy to grow-which it won't if you're too much of a coward to let it out." His tone became coaxing and his hand relaxed on the second boy's arm, stroking it affectionately. "We'll tell it to just go after the Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first, how's that?"

The other boy looked uncertain, but his grip loosened, enough of an opening that his companion was able to pry the bottle away from him and pull out the stopper. He nearly cut his finger on one of the deeply carved runes that decorated the grey metal but the boy scarcely noticed. His eyes were focused elsewhere.

A thick mist swirled lazily from the bottle's mouth, so dark in colour it would have been indistinguishable from the blackness of the hall save for the flickering blue light that limmed its edges. The light was faint but enough to illuminate more clearly the narrow, uneasy face of the hesitant boy and the wide and sinister grin resting on the thin-lipped mouth of the other.

The first boy stood calmly and watched the mist stir first one way and then other as if it were undecided about which direction it wanted to go first.

"Now listen here," the boy said to the mist while his partner looked on, every line of his face terse. "Go off and feed-but you are not to touch Potter or the girl. Too much attention on them and we don't need the Old Fool and his lackeys catching on that there's something afoot. You can sup from Potter's friends, but lightly...again, we don't want too much attention. We have your bottle,"-here he picked it up and gave it a wave-"and if you set one tendril out of line you're going straight back in, screaming all the while. Understand?"

The shuddering eldritch light dimmed slightly, which might have been an answer, and the mist began a fast flow away from the first boy.

"How much does a Night Hag understand anyway?" the first boy said shrugging to his partner as the mist began draining through the nearest wall, with a kind of purposeful ooze. Within a few seconds and with one last sucking sound it had vanished completely.

"Well, that's over with," the boy said nonchalantly, brushing back a lock of fine hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Come along."

The second boy rose to his feet, looking shaken and very wobbly in the legs. "I don't think..." he began, lifting his chin in an attempt to seem confident.

The other grabbed his arm so hard that he winced. "We are doing this for the glory of our Lord," the first boy hissed in his companion's face, fingers curving into the hard skin of the other's arm, leaving sharp white dents behind. "You can not falter." He stepped back, looked appraisingly at the other's face. "Alright?"

"For the glory of the Lord," the second boy whispered after a short silence. He was proud of his control; his voice was unwavering as he spoke and his chin went higher, making him look almost defiant. "I understand."

His partner looked pleased.

"Then get off to bed with you and be careful," he ordered over his shoulder as he strode off down the corridor. "We'll meet again."

The second boy waited until he was sure the other was gone, then began to walk slowly himself, one hand on the slippery stones of the wall for balance. His legs were unsteady.

"Our Lord?" he whispered, each word supported by slow-burning anger.

Snape propped his chin on his hand and watched his cauldrons through half-shut eyes. More sleeping potion for Madam Pomfrey, more salves for whiney, fearful children, more things he did not have time for! He swallowed a yawn and cast a quick glance at his office door out of habit; shut fast, exactly as it should be.

This was one of the few downsides to being Potions Master at Hogwarts-being forced to brew the most mundane, commonplace potions in existence for other people who should have well been able to take care of it themselves. He grimaced, feeling another yawn press behind his lips, then stirred the nearest cauldron with a glass rod and checked its colour.

Second years on up had been taught to make mild Sleeping Potions and calming draughts but most were fools and the rest were lazy, so once more he was forced to take up others' slack. It certainly wasn't his fault there seemed to be a number of sleepless students mooning listlessly around the corridors; it was exam time. Obvious. And yet Madam Pomfrey, hollow-eyed and tense, had the nerve to lecture him-actually lecture him as if he was still a stoop-shouldered third year under her care after he'd calmly pointed out he'd had far more important things to do than cater to the needs of some silly, overworked students. He winced at the recollection; stirred one cauldron a little harder. If Madam Pomfrey had screamed at him and hit him over the head with one of his ladles it would have still been better then her lecturing him.

The potions all bubbled to a finish at once, right on schedule to the last second; he extinguished the fires underneath each cauldron with a casual flick of his wand, then began bottling them. As he finished, he set each aside so Madam Pomfrey could collect them later and a neat little pile soon grew at the end of his worktable. No doubt the woman would back within the space of a few days, demanding more.

Once this thrillingly banal task was completed Snape dropped back into his chair, fighting back another yawn. Deplorable, utterly deplorable. He should have better control then this; he had always slept poorly and his body was well used to it by now. Yet this weariness had somehow crept in, despite his usual defences; he tossed and turned at night in sweat-soaked sheets and woke exhausted and grumbling in the morning. His eyes strayed to a locked cabinet set high on the far wall on his office.

Last night, during a particularly difficult sleep patch he had almost- almost been tempted to unlock the cabinet, take down the small, innocuous blue bottle that lay within and drink. Drink all of it and slip pleasantly into oblivion. A small shudder rippled through his body at the recollection, causing his fingers to tighten almost painfully on the armrests of his chair. Still, he told himself sternly, no point in living in what-might-have-been (and it was a damned good thing he wasn't prone to that, otherwise he'd have gone mad several times over by now); he had resisted and that was the important thing. He was even able to take a small bit of pride from his ability to resist the demands of his body despite the stress he was under; addiction was a difficult thing to break and this substance was notoriously habit-forming.

How many years had it been since he had last taken it? Four? Five? He might have slipped during Potter's first year; giving him yet another carefully hoarded and picked over reason to resent the boy, who had the infuriating distinction of being one of the few people walking around on this planet who could make him lose his control. Snape bit his lip in anger; felt the blood well under his teeth. Potter.

Potter and...no, he wasn't going to start that again.

A small smile twitched over his lips.

Potter was the least of his worries now; wasn't that ironic? He had always been fond of irony, always had an eye for the sour joke in things. Why should he be bothered by Potter's petty rebellions when the Dark Lord walked once more in ominous silence and his dreams were no longer of blood and shadows but of white skin and black hair?

The two men leave, one grumbling with each step. The moon comes out from behind a cloud; its light gilds the water with silver and for a brief moment the lake is no longer flat and black but transparent and glittering, beautiful in a way it can never be in the daylight.

Some nightbirds call softly from the trees whilst the water slops against the banks of the lake. Clouds cover the moon and the darkness shields everything once more.

The water churns suddenly, near the far bank and the girl's head pops up, sending water flying in an jagged arc as she gasps for air.

She paddles clumsily towards the bank; puts up an unsteady hand and manages to pull herself out of the water. Snakeweed clings to her skin and dress in long ragged black strings; there are reddish patches on her face and neck where the plant has burned her skin.

The girl curls on her side and vomits water for several minutes, then flops down on her back, still gagging. Her wand is clutched tight in her fist; it has saved her life and she has never been so proud of herself before.

"God damn all Death Eaters past, present and future to eternal hell," she mutters finally, her voice twisting with the wind. "Me a Death Eater. Idiots. If I'd had inclinations in that direction, the world would have been ash long ago."

She coughs painfully and gets up, slowly, her legs shaking. Her drenched dress is plastered against her skinny body, water dripping down to puddle at her feet. She is shaking with anger made brighter by fear and her feet feel like they are tumbling away from her. She hadn't thought it would be so frightening to fall off that cliff, or feel the ground crumble apart, pebbles rolling under her feet. The girl gags; remembers hitting the lake hard on her back, choking on that dark water, and all at once she screams, trying to chase the panic out of her chest before she goes mad.

A tree at the edge of the forest explodes, brilliant, wavering flames dancing up along the branches. Hot ash wafts towards her, dotting her face and dress as she stares.

"Oh cool," she finally says, her voice strained and a little too light. "Never had that happen before."

After a moment spent quietly watching, she turns away and staggers off into the forest beyond, muttering angrily all the while.

Snape let out a short, harsh laugh, then stood up and began pacing the room, folding his arms across his narrow body for warmth. Funny, the chill had never bothered him before. It must be his lack of sleep causing this sensitivity to cold and since sleeplessness was the cause of his weakness and she was the cause of his lack of rest, therefore the matter could be neatly summed up into three simple words: all her fault.

He rubbed his arm with a fitful hand; the Dark Mark was tingling through his sleeve in a reaction to his agitation. The same way it burned whenever he lost his temper or she got too close; a faithful mirror of his feelings.

"Unecessary aggravation," he whispered, "and dangerous besides." He walked on, a small cloud of dust billowing at each step.

The uneasy truce they had made towards the end of her illness had splintered away, most likely because neither of them truly wished to be kind to the other, he mused. Fine with him. Oh, he found himself curbing his more cutting remarks and she taunted less but smirked more, but that was all. She was still recovering, still weak and unsteady and he could afford the indulgence of treating her a little more gently until she was truly well. He smiled, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

Oh yes. Hatred still ran comfortably between them and he enjoyed the delicious, helpless rage that filled her eyes whenever he offered to help her around-after all, she was still so very weak. Miss Woodville, for all her other faults, was perceptive enough to notice that he was holding back in deference to her condition, tolerating her lesser barbs with a small smile and an air of infinite patience and it drove her absolutely mad. He chuckled, feeling quite satisfied. Silly little girl.

And yet this silly, empty headed creature had the nerve to appear in his dreams with her black hair curling about her bare shoulders...

Snape pinched himself, disgusted. If there were any sort of bright side to his current predicament, his new way of dreaming insured that he would never do anything more than want to throttle her, the frivolous baggage, since he was not going to form any sort of attachment based off cloudy images and sublimated stress. He shuddered and ran a hair through his hair, wincing when a finger snagged in one of the tangles. Thank God for that.

He found himself tracing the scar she had given him as he sat there, thinking; it was a small line, as narrow as if it had been drawn with a pin. She might have refrained from taunting him lately, but she had developed an exceedingly annoying habit of letting him follow her without comment, then looking over her shoulder every few steps with a small smile, as if reassuring herself that he was still behind her.

He spat on the ground and then rubbed it away with his foot, remembering the nonchalant way she'd greeted him earlier-"Oh, there you are," she'd exclaimed in a tone of fake surprise, as if he were a wayward piece of luggage she hadn't expected to see again. Then she'd turned and sauntered down the hall with a smirk on her face, skirts swaying...

Pain shot up his arms and Snape looked down, yanked out of his reverie; his fingers had dug into the skin of his arms so deeply the knuckles turned white against his sallow skin. He stamped over to his desk, nearly barking his shin on the desk's leg and withdrew a flask from a lower drawer, staring at the pale green liquid as it made slow spirals against the glass.

Disgusting. Completely disgusting.

He raised the flask to his lips, drained the contents and hurled the empty flask aside, the glass breaking into a glittering rain of fragments on the floor below.

"I am not going to lose myself over a scatterbrained slip of a girl with nothing to recommend her other then she happens to be near me in age!" he hissed as he felt the potion begin to work. It felt like ice sliding up his arm, cool fingers taking away the pain and he took a deep, shuddering breath, then relaxed. He pulled his chair out and dropped into it once more, leaning his chin on his hand.

"She's a weedy thing. Too skinny even though she devours everything in sight, no breasts to speak of, as hipless as a snake. A poor excuse for a female," he mumbled into his palm. "A spoiled, petulant little princess not even worth the time and effort it would take to break her, since she seems to be immune to all the usual tactics."

But sometimes that makes it more fun. After all, you're the one saying she should be down on her hands and knees thanking you... a small voice whispered slyly.

"ENOUGH!" he screamed, slamming a hand down on his desk, setting his quills and parchment to vibrating. His hand throbbed terribly and he was glad of it. "I_will_not..."

A soft rumble rippled through the air and he looked up to see one of his wooden cases wobbling dangerously, the flasks rocking back and forth on the shelves within, fluids sloshing. He jumped up, almost glad to have a distraction, even one of this sort.

Snape hurried over to the case, making it there just in time to catch a flask that had tumbled off the highest shelf. He cursed a half-dozen times under his breath, shifting the flask into the crook of his arm and the rumble sounded again. The wall had developed a definite crack... He narrowed his eyes and peered into the shadows of the crack, bracing himself against whatever might be lurking within. Nothing to see but a thin, dark line in the wall...a line that slowly expanded into a gap, revealing a pair of brilliant blue eyes that blinked twice.

"You!"

"Oh, so this is where that passage goes," she said brightly. Her small fingers curved around the edge of the wall and pushed outward; the gap widened as the shelf nearly toppled.

He slammed his shoulder against the wall and pushed it back, nearly catching those small fingers in between. Fortunately the girl had quick reflexes and managed to jerk her hand back in time. The fingers disappeared, followed by a squeal of outrage.

"Why you--"

"Hold your tongue, idiot girl," he whispered to the crack, rage beating fast through him. "The loss of your too-curious fingers would have been a small price to pay for your careless destruction of years of work!"

She quieted and he could hear the rustle of fabric from within the wall. "I didn't know this passage would end up here," she finally said, her voice muffled. An eye appeared in the crack again and stared at him.

"Why are you here?" he hissed between his teeth as he reset his flasks in their proper places. "Trying to make your swath of destruction even wider?"

She ignored the bait. Damn. "I want to talk to you."

"Then come into my office through the door like a normal person, or at least as close to a normal person as you can manage," he snapped. "I sometimes think that if I shone a light into one of your ears it would come straight out the other."

"Oooh, how terribly original," she sneered, her voice sharpening just a hair. The eye vanished and more rustling could be heard. "I'll be in directly."

Snape had just finished setting everything back in place when footsteps sounded from the hall and she wandered in through his door, not bothering to knock. He stood for a moment and regarded her, his arms folded and his most savage grimace in place. She appeared completely unfazed and walked over to his desk, not meeting his eyes, her skirts brushing lightly against the stone floor as she went. His frown deepened as he studied her, noting the slightly unsteady way she moved, hands away from her body and her fingers spread stiffly.

For once she wasn't wearing black; this dress was a silvery blue-grey with some sort of gauzy overlay (which explained the rustling, although that could also be due to the five million petticoats she seemed to enjoy wearing) and it was laced up the front with dark red ribbon. Her hair had been twisted up in a bun and speared into place by two long hairsticks topped by small pearls and finished by sharp points that looked suitable for gouging out eyes. He felt his lip twitch. McGonagall's robes were severe High Victorian, Sprout's looked much-mended and Vector chose robes strictly for comfort and not aesthetics, but Miss Woodville seemed to favour the Regency period or something like it, which meant lots of deep square necklines filled in with some sort of transparent scarf. How silly to think that a transparent little square of fabric lighter then breath could really conceal any cleavage. Not that she had much. But the tight bodices and deep necklines certainly made one start thinking of cleavage...But she didn't have any. Just..bumps. Rather firm bumps too, from the look of it...

He took several deep, sharp breaths, feeling his stomach contract, and asked in a surprisingly calm voice: "Why are you here?"

She ignored him for a few seconds, then turned her head a little in his direction and spoke. "May I sit down?" she asked politely, her eyes fixed not on him, but on some other point in the room.

He waved a hand at her, not bothering to answer, and crossed over to where she had been standing, taking care to maintain an adequate distance as he did. She was polite at least, he would own up to that.
Instead of taking a seat at one of the chairs lined up in front of his desk, she calmly walked over and settled herself in his chair, tucking one foot neatly behind the other.

Egotistical wench. "Get out of my chair before you sully it."

The girl rolled her eyes so far back the whites could be seen and the corner of her mouth lifted in annoyance. "I'll wipe it down with alcohol before I leave, alright?" she said, but her tone seemed more distant then angry. Most curious. Normally she would be leaping for his throat at this point.

Now that she'd usurped his chair he lacked a place to sit, so he contented himself with standing and fixing his most ferocious glare on her pale face. She wasn't even looking at him, but playing with a fold of her skirt. Snape let out a small, inconspicuous sigh. If he was going to waste energy glaring at her she could at least notice.

"My seal," she finally said, eyes on the floor. "You didn't undo it completely, you realise."

He snorted; tapped one foot impatiently. "Is that all? Are you that concerned about it? I have yet to see a significant change in your lifestyle because of my work, although I suspect the reason you eat like a small hippopotamus and yet never gain weight is because all that energy went into maintaining your seal." He pinched her skinny wrist for emphasis, though not hard, and she let out a squawk. "Who knows? You might actually start looking like a girl now instead of a clothes-pole."

She snatched her wrist away and he moved back with a smirk. "Hah! You accuse me of being too skinny?"

What was her problem? They could be having a fine row by now, eyes flashing threats and insults flying thick and fast between them and she was just sitting there limp.
As if she didn't care.

"Your heart doesn't seem to be in this today," he said softly, noticing the dark blue circles rimming her reddened eyes for the first time. "Why are you here?

"I have gotten stronger though," she went on placidly, as if she hadn't heard him. "See that book there?"

The book in question was a large, ancient tome of herb lore flaking pieces of its binding and sitting on a shelf at the far end of the room. Miss Woodville raised her hand, snapped her fingers and the book flung itself into her palm, all within a matter of seconds.

"Bravo," he said dryly, with a short clap of his hands, wondering what this little display was supposed to prove. "Should I get on my knees and bow before your superior power now?"

Her lip curled in disdain-getting closer-and she actually looked annoyed. "It's a stupid trick," she snapped, voice rising into a snarl. "I'm sure you could do it easily."

With that, she bounced up in the chair, lifted a white hand and hurled the book at his throat with more force then he would have guessed her capable of.

He had just enough time to snap out a hand and gesture quickly, stopping the book moments before it impacted with his throat. It fell to the floor with a low boom, dust rising all around it. He licked his lips. His throat was suddenly very dry.

"See?" she said, and closed her eyes.

Coils of anger were unfolding inside his chest, sharp fangs biting at his heart. With a few strides he crossed over to where she sat and wrapped a hand around her little neck, fingers tensed to tighten on her pale skin. "Explain yourself to me now," he rasped, almost shaking with rage, "or I'll squeeze."

She was so very still, hands pinching the folds of her skirts as she breathed lightly. Then as he waited, his throat full of hot, choking anger, Miss Woodville's eyes flickered open slowly and she tilted her head back as if trying to pull away. "Nightmares," she said, in calm, flat tones, not blinking once. "I've been having nightmares, horrible ones, and I want you to give me a Sleeping Potion."

He wanted so badly to squeeze, to see her struggle against him in desperation, still her mocking tongue. The blood in her neck fluttered gently against his fingers. Such warm skin and so thin as well. She probably bruised easily. Would he leave marks?

"You couldn't handle a Sleeping Potion on your own, pitiful creature?" She was motionless in his grasp.

"I need something strong," she said, eyes downcast. Out of respect or disinterest? "And as much as I hate to admit it, you are supposed to be one of the best brewers around."

"And if I don't, you'll go to the Headmaster, etc., etc.," he replied, moving his fingers from her throat to her shoulder. His anger dimmed, but the embers remained, hot and bright enough to flare up at a moment's notice. "So once more I must fulfill your whims at my own expense. Well, little one, nothing is free."

Miss Woodville sat up straighter and almost looked alarmed, blue eyes widening. Her fingers clenched on her gown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Snape gave her a narrow smile. "My dear, my dear, I have a feeling that once you are finished with my services, I will be calling in quite a significant tab." He walked around her in a slow circle, ticking off things one by one on his fingers. "You already owe me for your power, the trouble and expense I went through during your illness, not to mention the problems associated with having you here in the first place, plus you deny me the pleasure of telling everyone a very good secret..."

She slapped a hand down on the chair. "Okay, okay, enough already!" Her face had turned sullen, lips pulled into a thin, straight line. "Name your price." Had her voice wobbled ever so slightly on the last word?

He paused in his circling and stared down at her, throughly enjoying the furious light in her eyes. Much better then her being limp. "For every potion I provide to you, I want an hour of your time."

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head rapidly, wisps of hair brushing her face. She started to rise from the chair. "No way you per..."

"Paranoid female," he barked, shoving her back into her seat. "Rest assured that your time will be used for things like cleaning my classroom or grading papers." He smiled nastily. "I have no use for you in other ways."

Silence for a moment.

"Well, that's good to know," she muttered, her face just barely tinted with red. He watched her quietly, waiting for her answer. Miss Woodville seemed to be thinking very hard, brow creased and hands working the folds of her dress.

"Fine. Bargain made," she said after a few more moments of concentration. The girl took a long, deep breath, her small body shaking slightly with its force. "Where's the potion?"

He nodded to acknowledge her statement and stepped over to one of the smaller cabinets that lined the side wall, picking a small silver key off the ring on his belt. The lock turned over rather easily for a cabinet that wasn't used often; perhaps Filch was actually doing his job. "Control yourself. You'll get it."
There was a small bottle of a grey blue liquid nestled in the very far corner; a medium grade sleeping potion that should be perfectly suitable for her needs. He took it out; rolled the bottle between his palms to insure that none of the ingredients had separated out. Miss Woodville stretched out a hand and Snape gently placed the potion in her palm, stepping back afterwards to watch her reaction. She tilted her head and studied it, then pulled out the stopper and sniffed the contents; made a face, her eyebrows drawing together. "Ick."

"I just provide."

"Mmmm," she said absently, turning the bottle over in her grasp as if to see it better in the light. "Is this the kind with wormwood?"

"Of course not," he snapped, an image of the blue bottle he had hidden away lurking unpleasantly behind his eyes. "It's a highly addictive substance and I certainly wouldn't give any to you."

Miss Woodville looked up after he finished talking, one eyebrow nearly in her hairline. "You sound as if you know." Her expression was knowing and above all, smug.

"Hold your tongue," he growled, feeling his anger burn just a little more brightly. "You got what you came for; now leave."

The girl studied him. Her eyebrow settled back into its proper place as the smug expression slowly faded, to be replaced by a contemplative one that was almost worse.

"Gracious as always," she murmured. Her eyes went back to the small bottle she cradled in her hands and a frown turned her mouth. Then, with a small shrug and a tight, amused smile, she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank.

"You IDIOT!" Snape shrieked into her ear. She winced because his voice still carried very clearly through her head despite the comfortable waves of numbness that swam through her body. Her fingers and toes tingled as if they were being held against ice. "That potion works instantly! You'll be out for hours! What the hell were you thinking, taking it in my office?!"

Lilika managed to turn her head away from his ravings and ended up with the side of her face squished against the hard wood of his chair. His breath was surprisingly hot on her cheek. "You have no idea," she muttered, "how tired I am..."

His hands gripped her arms and gave her a good shake. "Arrogant little brat! I should..."

She was very warm and very sleepy and it was very easy to ignore him. This wasn't the most comfortable place to rest but it would do. Anything to slip quietly into the dark of dreamless sleep. If Snape was going to fly off the handle because she was tired, then he was more then welcome to take her nightmares so she could get some rest. Odd man. But she didn't think he would have really squeezed. "If you do anything, I'll know."

You know...I feel kind of funny...The other Sleeping Potion I took didn't feel like this...

Her eyes shut fully, his voice vanished and she dropped into sleep.

Now what? he thought, his mind working at a furious clip. She was completely unconscious, she would be for several hours and here she was taking up valuable office space. So much for the work he had planned to finish up today! Snape straightened and glared at her, his mouth twisting into several expression before deciding on a grimace. Here she had fallen and here she must lay: he couldn't take her back to Ravenclaw as it was broad daylight, the weekend and everyone was milling all over the place.

"She probably planned this," he muttered, "the vicious minx. Another way to make my life miserable."

The girl shivered; served her right for choosing to fall asleep here if she couldn't handle the temperatures. Her head lolled back and one hand had tucked itself under her cheek, trying to serve as a pillow. He gave her chair a good kick; she didn't even twitch.

"Nightmares," he spat disdainfully. "You and your petty fears and fancies! You can't be quiet about them and deal with them like a mature human being, you have to whine to me like everyone else..."

Miss Woodville exhaled softly, and a thin mist rose from her nostrils with the light breath. He froze, breaking off his litany. It was silvery-grey in colour and thickening quite rapidly.

More silver rose around her, swirling and changing into a long stream that curled around her. Snape bent closer, fascinated in spite of himself, his complaints forgotten. What on earth was causing this? It looked almost like a Pensieve...

"Your thoughts, perhaps?" he said quietly to the unconcious girl. "My my...you do have such interesting reactions to things." Like the Veritaserum, only better. He smiled.

Snape put a hand forward, fingers poised to touch. His hand hovered just above the mist, trembling slightly and his breathing came more rapidly.

"I think you owe me something for this trouble," he whispered to the sleeping girl, as if he feared a louder voice would awaken her. His fingers pushed closer. "And I have always wanted to know what goes on in that mind of yours..."

The mist brushed against his finger, coiling around it gently.

He felt a slow, sucking pull from deep inside as if his body was trying to collapse in on itself. His toes went numb and icy; a few moments more and the cold had spread through his body, winding its way to his heart, freezing his insides into a cold, painful burn.

He was pitching forward but there was no place to fall. Panic sliced into him. This doesn't feel right...

Then all at once he was inside.

Snape landed very hard on his back, dust and pebbles filling the air around him as he lay stunned. Above him stretched a forest, bare branches jabbing crookedly at the sky; underneath him were dead leaves and mud and before him was a castle. He got slowly to his feet, wincing as his left knee throbbed and walked a few steps forward, hands outstretched for balance. He felt very wobbly, almost like he'd been spun around too fast and then yanked to a stop.

The castle looked very much like every other castle dotting the country; crumbling walls of greyish, mossy stone, flags flying from the highest tower and people milling everywhere, servants in blue and gold livery on the run. Running rather fast, in fact...

A group of about twenty people, all shapeless in dark cloaks, were gathered in a tight ring a little off to his left. Muffled conversation occasionally broken by laughter filled the air and Snape's heart quietly went cold.

His eyes darted from to the pennant snapping sharply in the wind from the highest tower- a stag and golden bars -to the group talking quietly before him- two were standing a little apart from the others, the taller one inclining his head almost respectfully to the shorter, who was the only one with his hood down, his silvery hair glittering in the sun...

This was Castle Rising, home of the Woodville family. The people were Death Eaters-yes he did remember this-and the two men standing slightly away from the others? Lucius Malfoy and himself, all of twenty and looking so smugly pleased with himself. So filled with the pride of being in the inner circle for the first time, invited to the home of one of the most important men in the organization, Lord Andrew Woodville.

So very, very stupid.

After his first shock, Snape walked around in a daze, staring into the black spaces underneath each hood. Memories..

No notice was taken of him as the people chattered on, oblivious, and his feet made no sound on the stones of the courtyard. A shiver went through him like lightning. Perhaps he was a ghost, or else they were the spirits. The scenery did seem a bit transparent. Either way it was almost...frightening.

He looked hard into each face as he passed, still a little stunned and wary. Here stood Mickles, Rosier, Avery. He aimed a kick at Avery's ankles as he passed, but missed and nearly fell. They had always stuck together, the three of them.

Rufus and Anida Lestrange, husband and wife. Husband a little too interested in his sister, wife a little too clinging. Mrs. Lestrange stood staring at her husband. It had been rumoured that he had only married her because of the resemblance, and later on, Anida would begin to reflect her sister-in-law not only in looks, but in personality. Rufus' attention was not on his wife, but somewhere else, most likely in the same room as his absent sister. Who just happened to be the former Iolanthe Lestrange and was now, by virtue of a fortunate marriage, the Lady Iolanthe Woodville, the mother of Charles, Maida and Liliana.

Maida Woodville, staring at nothing, her blue eyes as cold and empty as the moon. He paused and looked into her blank, beautiful face. Miss Woodville really did look like a smaller, more blurred version of her older sister. A smaller, more lively version. He had never known Maida to smile or laugh or even speak unless her mother was around. He could remember quite vividly the ferocious crush he had once had on Maida, a crush more for her looks then for her personality.

Wilkes...He stopped, shaking so violently his teeth snapped together with a clatter. Wilkes, still alive at this point in time, talking and smiling, occasionally looking over his shoulder to laugh into the eyes of his companion. He moved closer, fists clenched into painful knots. He could see every freckle, every pore on that man's skin, so very real and alive . Alive enough to take other lives. Completely forgetting his wand, his fingers curved into claws and went for Wilkes' throat...

And met air, pushing violently against each other. He was standing with his hands buried halfway through Wilkes' throat while Wilkes continued to talk calmly.

"Did you think you could change what's already happened?" a light, familiar voice asked. Skirts rustled behind him as the person moved closer. "This isn't real-or rather this is a reflection of what was once real. Don't you remember this day?"

Snape turned to see Liliana Woodville standing quite near to him, small face unusually grave and serious. She was watching the people go by, head tilted and eyes intent and she didn't flinch at all when he pulled his wand out and aimed it at her heart.

"Who...or more accurately, what, are you?" he snapped, hands trembling so badly he was finding it difficult to keep his wand steady. "What do you mean by appearing like this? Are you her dream self or a Dream Walker? Answer me!"

She looked at him, face serene. "You're very familiar with the subject of Dream Walkers, aren't you?"

"Answer me!"

"How could you tell I'm not Liliana Woodville? Aren't I an exact copy?"

He lowered his wand and stared her right in the eye. "She was wearing a different dress," he stated, pointing a finger at the plain black velvet, free of ornamentation worn by the copy. "And you...are not breathing." Her breasts were still, motionless without the breath to move them.

"You're very observant," she said without a smile. Her eyes had shifted over to the front gates, peering at them through squinty eyes and spiky lashes while he tried to guess at what kind of entity she was. "But then again...if you don't like this form, I can take another." The girl's features ran together like ink smeared by water, to form a kindly face with a long white beard...

"NO!" he thundered, then lowered his voice. "Not that." The figure stopped shifting, becoming a small, glowing space, trembling in a way that looked almost annoyed.

"Does nothing please you? Well, how about this then?" The light rearranged itself once more, a female outline taking shape. Dark brown eyes, a kind smile and light brown hair...

His knees gave way as if someone had suddenly and silently pulled them away from him and he crashed to the ground, gagging on the bile that had risen with the specter. "Not her," he managed to whisper, curling in on himself. The wind was drowning out half his words. "Anyone but her." He wanted to vomit and he choked on the urge.

"So picky." Liliana Woodville looked down at him coldly, her eyes narrow. "I can only take forms that are in your mutual memories. So if the other two displease you, I shall stay like this."

"Tell me what you are," he croaked, face pressed into the dirt. I don't want to be here anymore.

"I would have thought it would have been obvious to someone of your knowledge what I am," she replied, prodding his body with a black-slippered foot. "Get up now-I believe this marks the beginning of your mutual memory." Shouting in the distance; people crying out with alarm and fear. He rose to his feet slowly and to his surprise the girl offered him an hand up. Her fingers were cold.

His younger self and Lucius Malfoy were already staring at the source of the commotion; one by one the other Death Eaters followed suit. "My lord, my lord!"

A different voice: "Open the gates! Get them open, damnit!"

"What is this? What in the seven names of hell is going on out here?"

Andrew Woodville had appeared at last, looking exactly as Snape could remember him: a tall, somewhat stocky man with hair that had been pure white for quite some time and vivid, angry blue eyes. Eyes that his daughters had inherited. He was standing on the steps of the castle's main entrance; upon hearing the noise he moved down them stiffly, setting each foot with care on the crumbling rock. His eyes were drawn in dark, tired lines, his face weathered like the bark of an old tree, a surprising show of age for a man who was only fifty.
Andrew had always struck him as a man who would rather be sitting down with a good glass of port and the newspaper then going on raids; every movement he made at the Death Eater gatherings spoke of reluctance and a bit of loathing and he was often heard muttering under his breath. Yet he had never tried to leave and he did his tasks well if not willingly. Iolanthe on the other hand...

A thin, rabbity looking man dashed up to Andrew and stopped before the bottom step, panting heavily. Blood spotted his hands. "My lord, Miss Liliana..."

Andrew's face went from impatient to completely still. "Lily? What happened? Where is she?" He grabbed the panting man's hand so roughly the man let out a cry. "Is this her blood on you?"

More shouting from the gates and all head turned that way. Lucius Malfoy and his younger self watched with matching smirks of amused curiosity. Above it all rose a high, demanding and very childish version of the voice he had come to know so well. "Put me DOWN! I am NOT a BABY!"

A very large man walked silently in the middle of a group of people skipping around nervously and all shouting at the top of their lungs. He carried a small figure wearing a bright red cloak that was quite tattered and splashed with mud. Her face was sullen and mostly hidden behind her black hair, the lips pulled into a pout. Curiously, one of her feet was bare. It dangled beneath the hem of her dark blue dress, as covered with mud as her cloak.

Two older girls and a stout, middle-aged woman trotted alongside the man, their robes almost as muddy as the girl's and there were twigs and leaves caught in the blonde one's hair. They seemed to be trying to offer encouragement to the girl, but from the closed, annoyed expression on her face, they weren't being very successful. The stout woman seemed to be swearing in German at the man carrying the girl, but his face never changed and his feet never strayed from the course he was plodding, which seemed to be aimed at one of the castle's side doors, avoiding Andrew.

Snape quietly walked to where Lucius and himself stood, never taking his eyes off Miss Woodville's child-self. For some reason, the entity made no move to follow him and merely watched him go with a look of complete disinterest.

He reached them just in time to catch a bit of a conversation he could still vividly recall: "Intriguing," Lucius said quietly, squinting at the girl. "Another of Andrew's far-flung relations?

"I have no idea," he replied. He could remember being vaguely interested at this point, nothing more. "Curious spectacle, is it not?

"Either way, we'll have our answer soon enough," Lucius said with a tight, thin smile.

The man finally surrendered the girl to the woman- who must have been that nanny Miss Woodville had called out for in her delirium-and the woman slung a broad arm around Miss Woodville's narrow shoulders, letting the girl lean on her so she could take her weight off the bare foot. Hopping awkwardly, they disappeared inside the castle while the other two girls wrung their hands, looking alarmed and miserable.

"FILTH! FILTH! OUT! OUUUUT!" Back they came, Miss Woodville and her nanny, almost flying out the door whilst Iolanthe went into a muted rave from inside the castle about her clean floors and the filth they were dripping on them. Iolanthe, he remembered, had always been a bit compulsive about the cleanliness of her castle, making everyone wipe their feet and take off their shoes, which always caused much grumbling. A jet of water followed the pair out of the door, soaking them both throughly.

"My lady!" the nurse said in outrage, wiping water and mud off Miss Woodville's impassive face. "You don't care that your daughter is hurt? I need to clean her and heal her! My God, I think that is more important then your floors! You are not the one cleaning them after all!"

"Cousin Margarethe!" the blonde said in a horrified whisper, a faint German accent overlaying her words.

"ENOUGH OF THIS!" Andrew roared, his face turning as crimson as wine. "Nurse! Clara! Agnes! Most of all Liliana! What _has _happened _to _my _daughter?"

No one moved for a few minutes. In the silence, Lucius Malfoy raised his eyebrows and remarked to young Snape, leaning close: "Daughter? This is the first I've heard of another child. Where has Andrew been hiding her? Out back with the turnips?"

The nurse nudged Miss Woodville who had been staring at the ground, frowning. "Go show your lord father."

Miss Woodville didn't move and if anything, her frown became even deeper.

"Lily...I mean my lady," the brunette girl pleaded in a low voice, "please don't be stubborn now." She sent an ill-concealed look of terror towards the group of Death Eaters.

The girl scowled, turned her head away and remained where she stood.

With a sigh and a grunt, the nurse pulled Miss Woodville against her-"Ouch! Hey!"-and dragged her over to where Andrew stood. Once she had been settled in front of her father she was silent once more.

"Liliana?" No response.

The nurse knelt and began to pull up the hem of Miss Woodville's dress. One of the Death Eaters-Avery, yes it had been him, that filthy idiot-whistled.

"Shut up!" the girl snarled, slapping at the nurse's hands, her face a study in outrage. "Stop it!"

"Well, do it yourself, then!" the nurse snapped back, throwing the hem back down and stepping away, arms folded.

Glaring most hatefully at everyone in turn, Miss Woodville reached down, took the hem in both hands with a defiant look-"The dress is ruined anyway," she said, as if it were perfectly obvious to everyone around what the state of the her clothing was-and tore the cloth violently in two, her pout changing to a look of satisfaction as she thrust her right leg forward. "I didn't cry once," she declared, chin high.

Snape remembered being sickened by the state of her leg back then but it was nothing compared to seeing it in perfectly clear detail right in front of his eyes once more. Her leg was ripped open all the way to the top, blood flowing down it like a river. The flesh he could see through the cloth looked mangled and bruised. He wanted to retch and apparently so did his younger self judging from his shaking shoulders. "My God," he heard himself whisper, "how can she stand there like that and stand it?"

To his complete surprise, Miss Woodville turned her head and looked straight at his younger self as if she had heard the muttered remark, and he noticed once again the wound over her eye. The blood ran into her eyes and she never blinked... There was a rusty pattern drawn on her cheek and he realised for the first time that she had a black eye as well.

"My...my God," Andrew whispered, sinking to his knees in front of his daughter. He jerked his wand out and pointed at her leg, frantically muttering a Healing charm. The bleeding stopped and for the first time, Miss Woodville winced. "How did this happen?"

She pressed her lips together and looked away.

Andrew sighed, closing his eyes tightly and briefly. Then, before his daughter could react, he grabbed her and lifted her into his arms, carrying her back over to where her nurse and the other two girls waited, shifting apprehensively. Miss Woodville managed a few ineffectual kicks, but that was it.

"You, Margarethe-take her back inside and clean her up-and don't let Iolanthe throw her out. Clara, Agnes-you are going to stay and tell me exactly how your mistress got into such a state," Andrew said in a flat and weary tone. The two girls looked quickly at each other, then at the floor, the brunette chewing her lip as Miss Woodville was led away.

Lucius Malfoy gave a very audible sigh of impatience. "I fail to see what all the fuss is about-he's got two more children, hasn't he? It's not like she's his heir."

"Andrew will hear you," young Snape whispered back, peering at Andrew from his hood. "And I think you'd act the same way if anything happened to Draco."

Lucius smiled coldly, his teeth visible. "Draco," he murmured, "would not act so foolishly."

"Draco," his younger self whispered back with just a bit of impatience, "is two months old."

"Sir-my lord, we were in the forest-the one right outside the gates, not far at all, I swear. We were preparing to come back inside as the hour was late- when my lady saw an owl fly past," the blonde began, fingers pleating the skirt of her robes.

"And she thought it might be Hoshiko," the brunette picked up, then sighed. Her bushy hair was plaited into a thick and not entirely neat braid. "And she went after it."

Andrew ran a hand over his face. "She did love that owl," he said quietly. "But it has been more then three weeks since Hoshiko disappeared-I thought Liliana had accepted that her owl was gone."

"We tried to stop her-Agnes and cousin Margarethe and myself-but she would not listen; you know how she is."

"We all ran after her calling- stop, my lady stop -but she ran deeper into the forest, and she didn't stop until she found the owl where the owl had perched." Snape noted something else that was new; the brunette slipped a hand into the blonde's and squeezed gently.

"And she climbed the tree despite our pleas," Clara said dully, her eyebrows drawn tight with pain. "And the branch broke when she was halfway across it and she fell as the owl flew away."

Agnes' eyes were very bright. "She fell almost fifty feet my lord," she whispered, brushing a dirty hand across her face. "A Muggle wouldn't have survived. She bounced a little on the way down and I think that's what saved her."

Andrew's face twisted and he turned away for a moment, his mouth jerking as if he were trying to find something to say. "Enough," he finally commanded, his voice thick and hoarse, and at that moment came the sound of footsteps from inside the castle. Miss Woodville reappeared with her hair laying wet over her shoulders as the nurse brushed it out and arranged in it braids. She was freshly dressed in a blue dress cut much in the same style as the ones her older self wore-although that dress wasn't quite so low cut-and she carried another red cloak over her arm.

The girl sat placidly on the steps, examining her Maryjanes, while the nurse pinned her braids into loops and tied them with red ribbons, her mouth hard with disapproval. Agnes and Clara stared at her in horror.

Andrew swallowed hard and apparently reached the same conclusion moments after the others did. "Don't you dare tell me you're going back out again," he finally blurted out, his voice undecided on whether to be nervous or angry.

"I want my owl back, Father," Miss Woodville said shortly, not looking up.

"How do you know that was Hoshiko? Would Hoshiko had flown away from you? No, daughter, it's a fool's errand. Stay here."

Miss Woodville's face darkened, but she made no response.

Hard footsteps marched towards them from the castle's main door and Snape looked over to see Iolanthe striding up, her narrow face rigid with anger and her black skirts swinging like a bell with each step. He stiffened as she passed, his hands clenching with loathing and he was having the hardest time trying to keep himself from jumping on that crazy, dried-up bitch and beating her past an inch of her life for what she'd done to her daughter.
He'd never liked her, not even when he was younger, as he'd considered her to be just a few inches short of insane and the odd relationship between her brother and herself was just...yuck. Thankfully the only things Miss Woodville had inherited from her mother seemed to be her pale skin and narrow, fox-like face; in everything else she looked like Andrew.

Iolanthe ignored her husband and instead went to Rufus- big surprise there -while Anida looked simply murderous. "Did you ever see the like?" Iolanthe hissed, clutching at her brother's arm. "Unnatural child. Her leg's ripped open and yet her face is like ice. I knew no good would come of her when I found out I was pregnant. Completely unnatural. I sometimes wonder if she's a changling left behind to spite me. She must be. She's no child of mine, acting like that."

"Certainly not like our side of the family," Rufus drawled, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Shut up, Iolanthe!" Andrew barked and the group of Death Eaters snickered. "Liliana, come here at once!"

Miss Woodville gave a very long, drawn out sigh and walked to her father, shrugging on her cloak as she went, her small fingers fumbling with the pin.

"What are you thinking?" Andrew snapped, his face tense. "You are not going back out there." He snatched the cloak pin from Miss Woodville's hands and started wrestling with the material himself. "Climbing trees like that, were you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Yes," Miss Woodville muttered sullenly as her father yanked at her cloak, "except I fell on Nurse and she broke the fall."

Andrew gaped at her, then grabbed her shoulders and shook her furiously until Snape could hear her teeth rattle together from where he was standing. "Don't you EVER say that again, not even in jest!" he yelled, his face gone greyish-white like a bad mushroom. His daughter had no answer; she merely looked away with a sour stare until Andrew finally got the cloak pinned together; he then stepped back, bellowing, "JOHN! ROB!"

The giant from earlier reappeared along with a short dark man. "My lord?"

Andrew pointed at his daughter, thick finger shaking slightly. "Go with your lady and her companions after that damned owl-because I know if I try to keep her inside she'll just sneak out in the dead of night when I'm not looking. If you find the owl, you will go up the damned tree-not her. And if anything happens I'll break both your necks. Slowly."

"Such fuss over a stupid little girl," Lucius said as he watched the going-ons, not even bothering to be quiet. "Such a plain thing too-that black mess over her white skin is a little too startling," and he could remember feeling stung, wondering if Lucius had meant it as a jab towards his looks as well.

"CLARA! AGNES! NURSE! LET'S GO!" Miss Woodville shrieked, looking very unhappy. She turned and marched off towards the gates, limping slightly while her little retinue followed, all grim-faced. Andrew watched them go, shoulders slightly bowed.

"I will see you later, sister," Maida said suddenly, as Miss Woodville passed, and Miss Woodville looked at her, eyes wide and startled. "See you later."

"Uncle Rufus, Aunt Anida," she acknowledged as she ran past. Rufus inclined his head with a chilly smile. "Child."

The girl reached the gates, moved to open them, and as she did, the scenery began to dissolve into little dots of light, faces and voices muted as he looked around in bewilderment.

"And so it ends," Miss Woodville said, moving back over to him. "This is the only memory you both share? It's quite interesting."

"What's going on?" he asked tersely, watching everyone around him shift into fog, except for the forest. "Why is this happening?"

She looked at him, amused. "This is where your memory ends, so of course it can't continue," she explained. "Right now, since you touched the mist, your minds are touching-however, she is asleep without dreams, so we'll see nothing more from her. That is also why I can be here."

"So you are her dream self."

A superior look, eyes narrowed and chin lifted. "I'm not saying anything. Her memories are locked away, but yours are quite accessable. If I were you, I'd leave."

With that she turned and walked away, apparently heading towards the forest that surrounded them, hips swaying exactly the same way as the real girl.

"Wait," he called, hurrying after her. "Wait!"

She didn't turn. "For you, going through the forest is not a good idea. Don't follow me." She laughed a little then, coldly, and mumured: "Voices of the night-if you should walk through the forest..."

"What?" he snapped.

"A lullaby her nurse used to sing. Now go."

"Tell me what's going on, you insolent brat!" he snarled, eyes on her rapidly moving form. The girl reached the trees and paused, then looked back at him with a mocking smile- exactly the way she always smiles at me, like I'm a fool who refuses to see the truth staring him in the eyes- and slipped between the branches.

He cursed, then plunged in after her, branches ripping at his skin, and was suddenly up to his neck in ice cold mist.

"Don't worry Sevvie," she consoled him, her eyes solemn. "I'll take care of you." Their mother was dead and his father had shut himself in his room and wouldn't come out, not even to make food for them...

Wood scraped at his face and he slapped the clutching twigs away. "Don't walk through the forest," he muttered.

"Look Sevvie." He was seated on her lap in front of the cauldron, watching as she dropped a handful of crushed henbane into the mixture. "This is how you add the henbane...what comes next?"

"Lizard bile," he said, six years old and very proud.

"I always hated it when she called me Sevvie." Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of black skirts moving through dark trees.

"Sevvie, come help me make potions," she cajoled, tugging on his hands. "It's not good for a little boy to be reading those kinds of books."

His black eyebrows drew together and he glared at her. "I'm twelve, not a little boy," he said shortly, "and Father reads these books and does all right."

"It won't look good if you know too much about the Dark Arts, jerk!" she snapped, smacking his head. "You're so good at potions-I want you to help me."

"Just because she was six years older she thought she knew everything." The trees seemed to be thinning out and he moved faster.

"Snape!" Rough hands grabbed his and pulled him up out of the tunnel, away from the hideous beast he'd seen at the end. "Sirius, you goddamned idiot, what were you thinking?"

"I saw it-saw everything," he gasped, shaking with fear and triumph. "You tried to kill me Black, and your friend is a werewolf ...now you'll be expelled. I'm going straight to the Headmaster and just you wait. Just you wait and see."

James stared at him. "If that's how you're going to be, I should have left you down there," he said bitterly.

"Oh, and Sirius Black trying to kill me was right?" he snapped, brushing what felt like cobwebs off his face. "How loyal you were James-so very loyal..."

"Master, I wish to serve you..."

He had nothing to say and simply ran faster.

The trees ended abruptly in a clearing and he nearly ran smack into Miss Woodville's dream self, who stood calmly in the clearing, watching something very intently.

"There you are," he growled, panting. He grabbed her slender arm and tugged hard but she didn't even struggle. "Now..."

"Shush!" she said, eyes fixed on what lay ahead. "I told you not to follow me."

"Why," he began, then faltered, his voice stopping dead as he saw what her eyes were fixed upon.

Before him, seeming to float on the mist around them stretched neat rows of people dressed in black, many sobbing and clutching each other. In the very front, the aunts wailed out their grief and clawed at each other, their narrow bodies shaking.

"No..." he whimpered, falling to his knees once more. "Oh God, I don't want to see this. I had to live through this. I DON'T WANT TO SEE IT AGAIN!"

"I told you not to follow, but..." she said and shrugged. He moaned and clutched at his head, fingers clawing at his scalp as hot grief tore wildly through him. "Must I be reminded?" Why...why I am remembering this...I thought I had accepted it, but it hurts so much, like it's happening all over again...

"How could you forget?" she asked, as she made her way lightly over to the coffin, almost skipping, completely ignoring the grief-stricken horde that wailed and muttered around her. The girl stood on tiptoe and peered inside. "How sad...the little baby too?"

"SHUT UP! Uncaring bitch!" he shrieked, wrapping his arms around himself to try and control his shuddering. He could see the only silent mourner of the whole group, sitting apart from the other with his head bowed while he shuddered as quiet grief and guilt put their hooks in his heart and ripped it to pieces, his lank hair falling over his face...

"I couldn't help it! How was I supposed to know she was going to hold the kid in front of her?"

"Ah gods," he whispered, and sank into darkness.

Someone sang to him, but he couldn't make out the words.

Velvet tickled his cheek and he opened his eyes, frowning.

"So you're finally awake," the entity said, peering down at him with a curious stare. One of her small hands was resting on his hair, fingers separating the strands, and he shivered before he remembered what she was.

"Why'd you bother?" he muttered into the velvet of her lap. The real girl smelled of lavender; this one smelled of nothing. No scent, no breath. No warmth. Like my dreams, only not pleasent. Then again, I shouldn't be associating pleasure with that woman in the first place.

"You needed comfort," she said, as if he were stupid for not noting the obvious, and he bristled. "As you well know, Dream Selves can only react, never act. I reacted to your need. Simple."

He pulled himself into a sitting position and her arms fell away. "You reacted or she reacted?"

"I already told you, she's sleeping and had no part in this. What does it matter?"

"Oh, it matters," Snape hissed, fierce anger mixed with guilt welling inside him. "I don't think even she is so empty-headed and amoral as to dance at a funeral!"

She folded her arms and glared at him, mouth twitching. "You really are no different from the way you appear in her dreams!"

"I...what?"

Snape felt a bit as if something had smacked him hard on the side of his head; his ears were buzzing and he felt almost light-headed. "She...dreams about me?" he asked, hating the hesitant note that had crept in while he wasn't looking. The girl smiled cruelly as he asked the question she wanted.

"Oh yes-nightmares mostly. You gave her quite a scare at some point. I called you the 'Dark Man' because you were almost always, with few exceptions, cruel, nasty, frightening-in short, she thinks you're a real bastard."

"I'm thrilled to know she has such a high opinion of me," he said quietly, not sure whether he should be gladdened or a little upset by this information. Why do I care? Why should I care?

"And yet..." he said slowly-Perhaps I'll see how far this will go-you mentioned exceptions. What kind of exceptions?" To his surprise, the being actually flushed.

"None of your business! She doesn't like you."

He noted with dim amazement that she wouldn't meet his eyes and her white skin had turned a wan rose.

"You are blushing. Your hand was in my hair and you put me on your lap," he pressed, placing his hands on her arms, feeling oddly short of breath. "Tell me."

She tried to pull away, which made him grip her more tightly. "No! How many times do I have to tell you that SHE DOESN'T LIKE YOU?" she hissed furiously, her face still red.

Snape laughed coldly-this one was almost worse then the real girl, embodying all of her faults with none of her good-and pulled her closer, feeling as if his blood had been carbonated, all his frustration come to a bubble at once. "And you think I'm not capable of winning her over? You sit and lie to my face. So she has a small weakness towards me? All the better. What are you afraid of? This is a dream after all, only a dream: no different from when I dream," he whispered. "So either tell me her dreams-it's only fair now that my worst memories been laid out for her to pour over-or show me," he finished, putting his face close to hers.

The girl was still. "She won't remember anything and likely neither will you," she muttered, small fists doubled.

"All the more reason. She owes me so much," he said softly. His hands slipped up her arm as he leaned forward and she turned her head away, blushing a furious pink. "Show me, tell me...before I start experimenting to find out." Her head was bowed, her fingers trembling. He reached over and turned her chin to his with a finger, shivering at the coldness of her skin. She lifted her hands...

And punched him hard right in the nose, sending him flying back. "Arrogant PERVERT!" she shrieked, and the last thing he remembered before he passed out was her contorted, furious face.

Snape woke on his office floor with the cold tile pressing against his head, feeling dazed and unsteady. His nose ached terribly right on the bridge and he put a cautious hand to it.

What the hell just happened?

A small foot dangled near his head and he groaned. Judging from the soft snores, she was still asleep.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Something coarse was prickling into her cheek, many sharp little points disturbing her rest. She turned over and inhaled, an unfamiliar peppery smell coming to her. What is this?

Lilika woke up then, blinking as she saw complete blackness instead of the expected hangings of her bed and her lamp. "Huh?"

She tried sitting up but was forced back down almost at once and she couldn't even raise her shoulders more then a few inches. "What?!"

Panic bit hard into her heart as she tried struggling some more, to no avail. A heavy weight was pressing down on her, pinning her arms to her sides, covering her entire body in such a way that very little movement was possible. Frantic, she took in large gasps of hot, stale air as a terrifying vision flashed before her eyes...

"They've buried me alive! ARGGGHH!"

She kicked and pushed at the weight above her, becoming more and more frightened with every futile blow. "My god, my god, they must have thought I was dead when I was asleep, I knew I shouldn't have taken that potion from Snape, help me help me help me! HELP!"

"HELP!"

"HEL-oh."

One of her hands had struck air and as she rushed up towards it, Lilika discovered that the weight was many heavy woolen blankets and she had been merely buried under the sheets in someone else's bed. She sat up completely and shivered as the cold hit her. "It must be twenty degrees below freezing in here!"

She was in a large bed made of heavy, dark wood, with hangings the colour of old blood. The prickles turned out to be a feather pillow-she despised feather pillows-and about fifteen blankets had been piled on top of her, explaining the squashed feeling. Her panic slowly cooled into caution.

"Where am I?"

The room was large but fairly simple; there were bookcases on every wall, all crammed with dark, heavy books and several imposing wall cabinets. Very few pictures and what there were featured dark figures staring out gloomily from their frames. A desk, an ornately carved mantel with a fire that had nearly gone out and a large chair propped in front of it, a clock with a very loud, annoying tick. A good-sized tapestry with the Slytherin crest worked in green and silver threads that glinted with the dim light...

Slytherin crest?

"Christ!"

She slipped out of the bed, pushing the blankets aside as she shivered, and nearly fell when the floor turned out to be several inches lower then she was used to. The floor was tile, which didn't help the chill any, and she ended up hopping from area rug to area rug to spare her stocking feet the cold.

Lilika tiptoed up to the high-backed chair that faced the fire. The chair's back had blocked her view from the bed; now she could see the ottoman pulled up close to it and the black-clad legs propped on the ottoman. She crept over.

Snape was sprawled in the chair, his lank hair falling over his eyes and he seemed to be perfectly fast asleep, with only a light blanket thrown over him for warmth. Masochist. His arms were folded over his chest, fingers parted on the blanket folds and his breathing was deep and even. She padded closer, wondering if it would be a good idea to wake him so she could ask him what the hell had possessed him to bring her down to his bedroom.

Did his nose look a little bruised or was it the light? Lilika bent closer.

As she peered at his face, moving even closer for a better look, there was a gleam from underneath his lashes. Just when her face happened to be two centimetres away from his own, Snape wrinkled his nose, coughed and then opened his eyes, looking very annoyed.

Lilika shot about fifteen feet backwards, nearly tumbling over a chest as she did. "Uhhh..."

His cross look deepened.

Oh dear. "Umm...bathroom?"

He pointed out a door by the side of the bed that she'd failed to notice, scowling as he did. "Um...Thank you."

Lilika all but ran through the door, cursing under her breath and discovered that the bathroom was actually off a small sitting room. She used it, stewing inwardly about her lovely imitation of a scared rabbit back in his bedroom as she did. He gets a sitting room too? Lucky bastard. Guess the heads of house have perks other then expelling people.

Lilika did a slow walk back to the bedroom-a very slow walk, taking a quarter step in place of each full one-and discovered Snape had turned around in the chair and was watching for her. She shut the door behind her and the lock clicked very loudly in the silent room.

"Snape, I..."

"Bed!" he ordered, pointing. She jumped, then decided the nasty look on his face was not just for show and darted in, huddling under the blankets and peering out cautiously once she was settled.

He lay back in his chair with a grunt, apparently satisfied. "Goodnight, Miss Woodville."

"Goodnight," she replied, rather quietly. Looks like I'm stuck.

After beating the pillow into submission, she lay there stiffly, trying to work her way back into sleep. The room dropped into darkness as the fire finally went out with one last shuddering flame, while the clock ticked loudly away on the wall.

The pepper scent must be his, she decided, sniffing the pillow as she lay against it. Not such a bad smell. He had very bad taste in pillows though.

What am I going to do in the morning?

Counting sheep did not work; counting dragons did not work and she was far too aware of the man supposedly sleeping just a few feet from her.

What is he going to do in the morning?

First I take his chair; now I've taken his bed.

She was growing a little sleepy now with warmth, and her more practical side told her to shut up, stop thinking and enjoy the warmth so she could fall asleep.

Eventually, she did.